


Refuge

by Sam_the_Skald



Category: Sherlock (TV), Stardew Valley (Video Game)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Farm/Ranch, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Arguing, Curiosity Killed the Consulting Detective, Eventual Romance, Eventual Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, F/F, F/M, False Identity, Farmer!Sherlock, Gen, Happy Ending, I Don't Even Know, I promise, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, It's For a Case, John is a Bit Not Good, M/M, Mary Morstan is Not Nice, Molly misunderstands, Moriarty is a slimy creep, Mrs. Hudson & Lewis (Stardew Valley), Mrs. Hudson Ships It, Pam has issues, Pining Greg Lestrade, Redbeard is bestest boy, Sarah is a good doctor, Sherlock Can't Help Himself, Sherlock Holmes and Bees, Sherlock has trouble with words, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Slow but Wholesome, Suicide Attempt, Will add more tags as I go, marital trouble, mysteries!, not literally - no one dies in this fic, redbeard is a dog
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-03
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:00:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 22,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26799223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sam_the_Skald/pseuds/Sam_the_Skald
Summary: Years ago, Sherlock steals the deed to a cabin in Stardew Valley from Mycroft for a laugh. Now, he uses it for a case pretending to be William S. Scott, attempting to lie low as a farmer and beekeeper. The valley turns out to be both more difficult and more fascinating than he anticipated.
Relationships: Irene Adler/Kate (Sherlock), Mycroft Holmes & Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes & Greg Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes & Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 37
Kudos: 36





	1. Prelude

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [lean into a loved body](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25388143) by [simplyclockwork](https://archiveofourown.org/users/simplyclockwork/pseuds/simplyclockwork). 



Notes:

This is set in an Alternate Universe: Mycroft is still a “minor figure” in the British Government, Sherlock is still a brilliant madman who occasionally consults with Scotland Yard, John is currently in Afghanistan. That is where the similarities end, however. 

This idea formed after reading  simplyclockwork’s beehives and honeycombs series. I recommend anything they  touch; it is guaranteed to be beautiful. I hope someday to write half as well. :) 

It is my hope to make this story generic enough that any prior knowledge of Stardew Valley is not necessary to enjoy the story – but that being said, if anything doesn’t make sense let me know!

Not Beta read. Please forgive any weird tense changes or typos. Sometimes I think I may inflate my ‘hit’ count by re-reading my own stuff in search of errors....

Prelude:

Sherlock Holmes had a  _ plan _ .

It took a bit of doing, but he was now on a train to the countryside with a small bag of belongings and a new identity in tow. He was dressed in loose fitting jeans and red plaid shirt made of soft flannel, functional brown boots and at his side sat a puffy olive green jacket. 

_ William S. Scott  _ is what his new ID card read. Every good lie is steeped in a bit of truth. Along with that, a deed to a cabin and a handful of acres of farmland near the coast. It was located a short distance from the small village of Pelican Town, nestled in what was colloquially called “Stardew Valley”. A rather saccharine name, in Sherlock’s opinion, but clearly this area was given to folksy sentimental whim. Charm? Whatever it was called. Not important.

The deed itself he had nicked from Mycroft’s office some years ago for fun, just to annoy his brother. Now it accompanied him with two levels of surprise: Mycroft either didn’t care or didn’t notice it was gone, and that he actually ended up needing to use it for a case someday. And not just any case – This was a big one. Maybe the most important case Sherlock Holmes will ever endeavor, and certainly the most elaborate he had ever taken on.

_ Save Mycroft Holmes. _

_ - _

He arrived at the frankly derelict cabin in the early afternoon, accompanied by the town’s Mayor, a Mr. Lewis. Sherlock hadn’t figured out if Lewis was his first name or surname yet. He was an older gentleman in good shape but full silver-grey hair filled in his mustache and peeked out from under his cap. He had a sparkle in his eye that belied a decent wit. By the way he spoke about the town, he clearly had a deep care and connection to the surrounding land and its people. He somehow unironically wore brown denim trousers with suspenders, a button-down shirt and a sunny yellow tie.

As they walked in from the road, Sherlock was getting a quick speech about how excited everyone was to meet a new resident and how glad he was someone finally came to claim the land that had clearly been abandoned for some time. Full of scrub trees, small boulders, general weeds and vines, the land was practically feral. It was a wonder it had ever been farm land before. Mayor Lewis let him know that if he had items he wanted to sell, Sherlock could use the wooden box that was next to the cabin. Apparently, the dedicated city official came to fetch any produce or otherwise, sold it, and would give Sherlock the proceeds. 

It felt overly generous an offer, but maybe that was just their custom here? Regardless, it was necessary. To keep the façade afloat, Sherlock had to arrive with just the small bag of spare clothing and that was it. 

No mobile, no money, no posh espresso machine. Nothing. He managed to  rationalise his silk dressing gown as one worldly comfort into the bag, but even his beloved (but much too recognizable) Belstaff coat was left behind.

“Well, looks like you’re all set here, William. Please don’t hesitate to let me know if you need anything at all!”

“Sherlock.” He turned to the Mayor, putting on a smile. “Please. I prefer my middle name. William was my father.”

Lewis chuckles and nods up at him. “Fair enough, ‘Sherlock’. I’ll send Robin up to see you in the morning once you are more settled in to talk with you about any repairs the cabin may need.”

Robin was the local wood worker, apparently. Given his assessment of the outside of the domicile, some repairs would be badly needed. It was early spring, so the nights could get quite chill and damp... Suddenly, Sherlock had a desperate homesickness for a warm bed in London.

Instead of fleeing home, he smiles at Lewis, gives him a nod of thanks, and starts up the steps to his new home for the foreseeable future.

It... wasn’t much. Not as bad as it looked from the outside, thankfully, but definitely lower than most of Sherlock’s usual standards for living arrangements. To Lewis’ credit, it had been recently dusted and swept, and generally cozy instead of dark and bug-filled like Sherlock had feared. There was one room plus a loo and a small closet on one wall. A log-built studio flat in the middle of nowhere. The furniture included one single bed, a floor lamp, a television resting on the floor, a small table with one chair and a rug underneath, and a stone fireplace in the corner. 

_ What in the hell have I done?  _ The consulting detective thinks miserably.  _ I’ll die of boredom before the sun rises tomorrow. _

_ Mycroft better throw a bloody parade in my honor when this is over.  _

Sighing deeply, he got to work putting away what little belongings he brought with him and getting a fire started to keep the damp out. He managed to figure out how to boil water over the flames and sat on the bed with his mug of tea. 

It was going to be a long night...


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock ventures into what is considered 'civilization'.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this while tired, so I don't really like the quality of it. There's potential I will edit it some later. And now... I sleep.
> 
> Update: I went through with an editor's eye and fixed up some things. Hopefully it is a bit smoother now. :)

As the sun started to rise the next morning, Sherlock clicked on the telly – there were only a few channels to choose from. He settled on the news showing tomorrow’s weather report. 

“Should be sunny all day!” The weather person said cheerfully. With a growl, Sherlock flipped the set back off. That was already too much smiling for today. 

He had barely slept, but in the end, there really wasn’t much else to do in the tiny one-room cabin. He kept the fire going to keep the space warm. It cast stretched, unsettling shadows across the unfamiliar floor and walls. He had his plan to go over, but there wasn’t much more to do but wait at this point. 

_For how long?_ He frowned darkly. He hated having to admit he didn’t know. As long as it took. 

He remembers back to two weeks ago when Mycroft showed up in his flat unannounced (as usual) looking pale and shaken (decidedly NOT usual). Apparently, his dear elder brother had somehow slipped up in a major way and now had an international bounty on his head. He had taken significant risk even coming to Sherlock’s home to let him know he was going into hiding. 

Not even Sherlock Holmes could find Mycroft if he wanted to disappear, the assassins finding him was not the problem. The real issue was Mycroft would never be able to come back to London, to his life, until this was dealt with. So, despite his brother giving him assurance that his ‘best’ people were taking care of it, Sherlock developed a trap. If he could lay out a subtle trail to himself in this remote area, away from Mycroft and the chaos of London, then the best assassins would find him and he could gather information enough to find and eliminate the source of the bounty. He had carefully dropped the proverbial informational breadcrumbs so that only the cleverest could follow, and those would be the ones worth all this effort and planning. 

Only now, that part is finished and all that was left now was insufferable waiting for them to arrive. And... pretending to be a farmer? That part was still in the works. 

Obviously, he had to clear out the land to even begin planting anything, so that would be objective number one for now. Did he even have any tools for such an endeavor? This was so tedious already and it was the first day. 

He goes to the front door to go look for equipment to get started and is near startled out of his boots when he is greeted by a woman out on the front porch. 

Had she been waiting for him to exit? For how long? These people are so strange... 

“Morning!” She chirped. Sherlock takes a glance at her with a slight squint. Upper-thirties, copper red hair up in a messy ponytail, a pencil behind one ear, and coveralls with plaster and sawdust splotched about. Must be the carpenter the Mayor had mentioned. 

“Robin?” He ventured and was greeted with a big smile. 

“That’s me! Mayor Lewis told me you go by Sherlock, is that right?” Word travels fast. “I live up on the mountain, just north of town.” 

He didn’t know how to respond to that. There is an awkward pause and he clears his throat. “Tea?” 

“No, thanks, I’m full up! Care to take a walk around and we can see which repairs you might be needing?” He could tell from her tone of voice that Robin thought the place was a dump, but she was trying hard to remain polite. He agreed with her, but put on an interested and grateful mask to seem attached to the old ramshackle. 

“Great! Let me just grab my jacket.” 

\- 

When Robin finally left with a list of things she agreed to fix, free of charge thanks to the Mayor, Sherlock let out a breath. It was still only mid-morning, how would he possibly fill the rest of the day? 

Thankfully, while traipsing about the property he had noticed a small stockpile of tools – an axe, a pickaxe, a hoe, and a scythe – leaned up against the side of the house. They had all seen better days, much like the rest of the farm, but better than nothing at all. He picked up the pickaxe and tested the weight of it in his bare hands. 

It took the next four days of sweating, swearing, sunburn, and blisters to really get any kind of skill with the tools. Were it not for Sherlock’s eternal stubbornness and modicum of concern toward Mycroft, he would have admitted defeat and slunk back to London by the end of that first day. He was beyond weary. This type of physical labor was not usually his wheelhouse. On the upside, he had much less trouble sleeping. 

The yard directly around the cabin was more open now, and Robin had done the largest of the repair patches so the house looked a bit less like it was about to collapse. He sectioned a portion of the front porch for firewood logs. He noticed he needed a fair bit with the fires in the hearth every night. Hopefully soon it would be warm enough that consumption would lessen. 

He put any excess materials into the “Sell Bin” for the Mayor to pick up later. He’d even found a handful or so of wild seeds that he experimentally planted to see what would grow. After several days of this, Sherlock found he had a decent little stockpile of money, so he decided to go into the village proper to buy more seeds and maybe get his impression of the other residents. 

-

The next morning, he woke to find it raining. He bundled himself up for the trek into town, deducing correctly the early spring morning precipitation would be bitterly cold. The walk warmed him enough that he found himself meandering instead of thundering straight to the shop, observing the native flora, spotting squirrels and rabbits darting about in underbrush. He passed a broken-down public transportation bus on the road that he remembered seeing on his way in almost a week ago, giving it a frown. He made a mental note to come back out here to gather more data. 

The rain slowed to more of an insistent mist by the time he reached the edge of the village. From here he could see the small clinic with a flat above it, where the nurse lived. That shared a wall with the local grocer that also had an attached living space behind the storefront. Beyond that, in the distance, was a white house and beyond that, the river. To his right were two more houses facing away toward the coast surrounded by decent sized yards. Next to them, the main town square was a grey expanse of stone and the only tavern was just on the other side of that. The mayor’s house was just south of the tavern, large with a well-kept front garden. Sherlock could see a reliable looking green truck peeking out from the far side of the residence. Must be what Lewis used to gather up his sellable detritus every morning. 

To his left was a set of stairs that led up, but what waited over their crest was a mystery. He hadn’t felt the need to memorize the map of the tiny village before arriving. Another place to go exploring later. 

At the door of the Grocer’s shop, he noticed they hadn’t quite opened for the day yet, so he turned back to glance at the bulletin board up on the wall nearby. There was a laminated calendar that posted holidays and birthdays of Pelican Town residents. Apparently yesterday was Mayor Lewis’ birthday. _Dull_. 

Next to the calendar is a “Help Wanted” space with corkboard back sporting many holes and divots from repeated use. There was nothing posted just now, but various pins with ripped off snags of paper clung to the porous surface, damp from the rain. Sherlock filed this away for later, knowing it might come in handy. 

Bored, he fiddled with the buttons on the cuffs of his shirt sleeves that peek out from the now sodden jacket while waiting for the shop to open. Life moved at a much different pace here than in London. He sourly admitted to himself that he was spoiled by instant gratification of the internet and 24-hour supermarkets. 

Finally ( _finally_ ), a man approached the door to unlatch the lock and let him in. He was on the chubby side, with dark hair and glasses. He grinned at Sherlock as he retreated back to the sales counter. 

“Come in and get out of the damp! Take a look around, and let me know if you need anything specific.” 

Inside was clean and dry, with shelving stocked with essentials for life out in the country. Sherlock made cursory glances at everything before he picked up some items to feed himself without a proper kitchen, more tea, and four packets of seeds from a spinning display. Approaching the counter, he smiled.

“I’m Sherlock, by the way. Just moved into the farm.” He points to the west while pulling his wallet out of his trouser pocket with the other hand. To his credit, the confusion in the grocer’s eyes lasts only briefly before bagging up his items.

“I heard someone was moving in out there. I’m Mike Stamford, very pleased to meet you.” Mike hands Sherlock the thin brown paper bag. 

“Good to meet you, too, Mike.” To Sherlocks right, a door leading to the residential part of the building opens and a young woman with long purple hair emerges with a yawn, rubbing one of her eyes sleepily. 

“Abigail! Come meet our new neighbor, Sherlock.” Mike implores, and she turns with a raised eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. Sherlock plasters on a smile that he hopes is easy-going. 

“Hey. Are you out on the farm? I like it out there.” She is at most early twenties, but Sherlock hedges closer to freshly graduated from secondary school. He finds he admires her easy honesty right off. 

He huffs out a laugh and looks at the floor. “It’s not much at the moment.” 

She shakes her head, shoving her hands in her front pockets of her jeans. “I liked it like that. All wild.” 

Mike tries to make an apologetic face for his daughter, but Sherlock shrugs at him. He finds himself with a genuine smile now, this girl had potential to be interesting. 

“Nice to meet you, Abigail. Mike.” He throws up a short wave and pushes himself back out into the town.


	3. Chapter 3

The misting rain had stopped, it was mild and overcast as Sherlock left the store. On a whim, he decided to head up the stairs to his right to see what was up there. It appeared to be an open grassy field with a large circular fountain. Beyond that was a children’s playground with climbing toys and swings. Sherlock noticed a woman, approximately mid-twenties with warm, brown skin and curly hair, standing near the fountain. Her dark eyes narrowed when she caught sight of him walking toward her.

“Hello there!” He called to her, in an attempt to make his approach slightly less awkward. “I’m Sherlock, I just moved in. At the farm.” He nods his head to the west, and gets a feeling he’ll be repeating this particular phrase quite a bit in the coming weeks...

“I didn’t know someone new was in town.” She replied with suspicion tinging her voice, giving Sherlock a souring up-and down glance.  _ She doesn’t trust me. _

“Yeah, just about a week or two back? Haven't been into the village proper, though.” He smiles, hefting up his small back of groceries. “Until today, of course.”

“Right... I’m Sally. I live in town with my housemate Molly.” Sally makes no move to shake his hand or otherwise move, just watches him in the tense silence that follows.

“I see.” Sherlock adjusts his paper bag again. “Well, I better get  these home . It was nice to meet you, Sally.”

“Uh huh. Bye.”

-

The rain came back in earnest as Sherlock trekked home again. Trudging as quickly as he could, trying to avoid mud puddles or getting the flimsy paper bag damp enough to dump its contents. Once back at the cabin, Sherlock set the bag up on the porch and went to find the hoe from the pile of tools he now keeps standing up against the front wall next to his small white mailbox.

He set to planting the new seeds immediately, despite the rain, as he wasn’t entirely sure how long they would take to grow to maturity. He makes his way to the small square of garden he had started with the random seeds he had found while cutting back the wild mass of plants and weeds and who-knows-what around the house, pleasantly surprised to find it already starting to sprout from the dark, damp soil. Thankfully, it was a warmer now that it was mid-day, and the rain made the earth a bit less difficult to dig up neat rows to plant his new crops: parsnips, kale, strawberries, and peas. Hopefully, in a month or so, he would have something more substantial than excess plant fiber and tree sap to sell.

Finally, drenched through his jacket and bone-tired, Sherlock enters the small cabin. It is chilly, but blissfully dry. He changes out of his wet clothes, builds up a fire and makes himself an admittedly pitiful meal of tea, beef jerky, and saltine crackers.  _ I will definitely need a proper kitchen, and soon. _

He fell asleep that night to the sound of rain and, for the first time, thoughts of improving his life in Stardew Valley instead of how nice it would be to be back in London.

-

Life passed in a steady routine after that. Sherlock would wake with the dawn, check the weather report, water and weed his small garden, and go into Pelican Town to check the Help Wanted board, or spend his measly income on a hot meal at the Stardrop Saloon, when he could.

One memorable Friday evening when he decided to treat himself, he found the establishment full of people he largely hadn’t met yet. He already knew the owner of the tavern, Gus – a pleasant middle-aged fellow with a love of all things culinary. He had a part time helper behind the counter by the name of Molly Hooper, Sally’s housemate. She was a mousey young lady who gave Sherlock shy smiles whenever they happened to cross paths. Mayor Lewis was also in attendance, having a drink with a woman of a similar age, and they were clearly deep in conversation because neither looked up when he arrived. Everyone else was a new face. Near the jukebox, Robin was dancing with someone.

The heat and volume of the bar was overwhelming with so many people, especially since he was now used to the deep velvet quiet of the farm at night.

Sherlock ordered some spaghetti from Gus and found a quieter corner in the adjoining games room to sit. There, Abigail was seated on a plush loveseat, watching a boy play pool. He was tall and thin, with dyed black hair and kohl around his eyes, and Sherlock had to suppress the strong urge to roll his eyes at the way Abigail ogled his backside when he leaned over the pool table. 

_ Teenagers... _

After Gus dropped off his meal, Mayor Lewis came by with the woman he was speaking with to make introductions. Her name was Martha Hudson, and she apparently lived alone in the ranch just south of Sherlock’s farm. They chatted about her animals, the weather, and her dodgy hip for a while before they let him get back to eating. Sherlock found her interesting and made a small room in his mind palace for her with a reminder to try to visit the ranch sometime.

While the atmosphere was nothing like Angelo’s back home, Gus was definitely a good cook. The hot meal was deeply appreciated after living off whatever he could scrounge together that didn’t require an oven. After he was finished eating, he put on his ‘Game Face’ and set about saying hello to anyone he didn’t know yet.

First, he approached the pool table and waved at Abigail. He found out the boy was named Sebastion, they went to secondary school together, and he was Robin's son. According to Abigail, he was great with computers and ‘super smart’. Sebastion just shifted awkwardly until Sherlock left. He wasn’t rude, but definitely a modest, quiet sort compared to his purple-haired companion who would have gladly sung his praises all night.

Then, he ventured into the main bar area. It had cleared out significantly since he first arrived, leaving only a couple people he didn’t know left.

A gentleman with greying hair, sad eyes, and a rough handshake was next. “Greg Lestrade, hi.” He was identified as the village blacksmith, and Sherlock was pleased to find talking to him easy and comfortable. 

Lastly, he spoke with a blonde woman by the name of Pam who was quite drunk. She wasn’t entirely intelligible, but Sherlock was able to gather she lived in the trailer home by the river and used to drive the broken-down bus that sat out on the road. 

Deciding that was plenty of socialization for one day, Sherlock made his goodbyes to Gus and Molly. He pushed out into the mild spring night, glad for the quiet and the dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a note, Sebastian is entirely from Stardew Valley and has no similarities to any Sebastian in the Sherlock-verse. :)
> 
> Thank you for reading!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time for a new character!

The weeks passed, and the weather in Stardew Valley tipped toward summer with long warm days that coaxed Sherlock’s little garden to life. One morning, the sun still low in the eastern sky, he set down his watering can to swipe at the sweat already forming at his temples. It wasn’t entirely unpleasant, he found he had started enjoying the feeling of putting his focus entirely into his body and letting his mind shut off for a couple hours. 

He decided to look into a sprinkler system, still. The plot he had started when he arrived was slowly growing to a size that would be untenable to water all by himself without it taking ages, and he was pretty sure he would succumb to heat exhaustion eventually. Until he could acquire one, though, he lifted the can, still heavy with water, and strolled up and down the lines of green sprouts. 

He finished in the top corner, where he had interred some of the unknown seeds the first week or so he had started. Excitement bubbled up in his chest, as he gently brushed away some of the greens to see what he might have nurtured into being.  _ Are they even ready yet? How will I know? _

As he was about to rip the plant up and march it down to the Stamford shop to see if the man could identify his bounty, Sherlock heard a voice: 

“ Yoo hoo! Sherlock, are you up, dear?” It was Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock stood and waved once his eyes found her form emerging from the brush, still some meters away.

“Here, Mrs. Hudson. What brings you by so early?” He calls, noticing the woman was watching and murmuring at her feet as she walked, probably cursing Sherlock for not making a proper path through his property. It was on his ever-growing list of things he meant to tackle. Suddenly, he sees a shape in the grass that bursts out and spins itself in the dusty earth in front of the cabin.

_ A dog! _ Without a second thought, Sherlock was walking long strides toward the creature. The poor thing looked a little worse for wear, perhaps out in the elements for a while now but the lines suggested it was an Irish Setter mix of some kind. His heart clenched in his chest and he went to one knee to reach his hands out for the dog to inspect.

“I found the love near the entrance to your farm, dear.” Mrs. Hudson pointed back the way she had come. “I think he’s a stray...”

“Yes.” Sherlock didn’t trust himself to say anything more, as the dog nuzzled its snout into the tips of his fingers and he fell hopelessly and completely in love.

“Aw, it looks like you are fast friends, then. Shall I leave him to keep you company?”

After sufficient sniffing, the dog bounded into Sherlocks open arms and licked at his face with fervor. He looked up at Mrs. Hudson with his eyes sparkling, giving gentle rubs and pats on its head and shoulder blades.

“Thank you, yes –Ah!” He gasped, ducking his head to the side when the warm tongue managed to find its way in his ear. The two of them dissolved into a mock wrestling match in the dirt, so Mrs. Hudson shook her head with a smile and left them be. She was tickled to have brought her new neighbor such happiness, judging from the deep, genuine laughter that echoed in the early morning air behind her.

-

Once Sherlock had given his new friend a bath and good, long brush, he found the dog was in fact a ‘him’, and really quite lovely. He had short reddish-brown fur with a strong, pointed snout, long ears with longer curls of hair, and his tail had longer fringe that was frankly majestic when he walked around. Sherlock named him Redbeard, after his childhood dog. He hadn’t realized how lonely he had been out in the little cabin by himself, and was endlessly grateful for the company. 

Redbeard ‘helped’ with the morning chores, listened intently when Sherlock swore at whatever he was working on that refused to work, and chased off rabbits and rats who thought they could get a nibble on his crops. When the sprinklers were finally installed, he tried to bite the water and appeared flabbergasted when it ended up not being a firm object. Sherlock laughed every time.

Now that he didn’t have to lug the watering can through the rows of plants every morning, Sherlock begun working on the rest of the land. He built a low stone wall with the extra rock debris he found down the middle of the property and next to it he dug a dirt path that went down past the small pond and through to the forest entrance by Mrs. Hudson’s ranch. He also cleared a large patch where he was planning on eventually getting a chicken coop set up.

He had been saving up his spare resources to go visit Robin anyway and ask about getting a small kitchen put into the cabin. He wasn’t eating enough to keep this new hard labor going, and going to the  Stardrop Saloon on a regular basis was just too expensive. He had so many other things he needed to spend his little spare money on. As it was, Sherlock had built quite a bit of muscle, especially on his arms and chest, but he was burning through the scant amount of fat he had when he arrived and was now too thin even by his own standards. It just couldn’t keep going as it was. If the assassins arrived now, they might be able to put him on the floor with a simple nudge.

Oh right, the assassins. The whole reason he was here in the first place. How long had it been now? Why hadn’t they come yet?  _ Was this too good of a ruse and they never come? Will Mycroft be in hiding forever because I failed? _


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Friendship is Magic

The next few days are spent cutting down mature trees in the south half of the farm to make a stockpile of decent wood for Robin to work with. Sherlock decided to leave the huge oak near the cabin for shade and it was admittedly rather handsome, for a tree. He worked as long as he could into the early summer days before the buzz of insect and the sweat pouring down his back was just too much to bear any longer. He spent the hottest parts of the day resting on the porch, usually. One day, though, he went exploring in the cave he found in the cliff face on the northwest side of the property. It was nice and cool in there, but sadly rather small with nothing of interest to find. Though, his mind lit up with ideas for experiments so it wasn’t a total loss.

Finally, when he was  satisfied he had enough wood for the work and had saved up a decent stash of cash to give her for the service, it was time to go up to the mountain to find Robin’s house. He flipped on the  telly out of habit to listen to the weather report while he put some dry kibble in Redbeard’s dish. The speakers droned about ‘perfect weather for the Stardew Valley Luau party on the beach tomorrow!’  _ Oh right, this village is near the beach! _ Sherlock made yet another reminder in his Mind Palace to himself to go take a look soon. For now, though, his business was the opposite direction, up the small mountain north of town where Robin lived with her family.

The hike up was surprisingly pleasant. The sun was up, but it wasn’t oppressively hot yet and the world was quiet. The view out to the sea reflected up to him in a shifting, brilliant blanket of light on the waves. This little valley continuously found ways to delight Sherlock. He almost wished he had brought Redbeard with him, but didn’t want the energetic dog getting away in an area he didn’t know. Maybe next time... 

Sherlock sighed with relief when Robin’s home was not difficult to find, having worried he’d spend most of his day scouring up and down a mountain side. He dusts off the dust of the trail and pushed open the front door with a knock. “Hello?”

Robin looks up from behind a small counter set up in her entry room. Piles of wood and various building tools occupied the opposite corners, and a door way to the right looked to go into the rest of the house. “Ah, Sherlock! Come in, what brings you up my way?”

“Morning, Robin.” He can’t help but smile at her, she was just so friendly. “I was hoping you could help me with giving my little home an upgrade?”

“Oh,  _ gladly _ !” The ‘finally I get to fix up that ugly shack’ is left unsaid, but obvious.

He huffs out a laugh at her exuberance. He pulls his list of resources he had at home, and a neat fold of bills for her payment and they get to planning. Unsurprisingly, Robin already had ideas on how to tack a kitchen space onto the house. Instead of trying to squeeze one into the space he had, she laid out an idea to add a bit more foundation and build out so the cabin would have two rooms: a decent sized kitchen that could easily hold a small dining table with a kind of sitting room to one side, and then an actual bedroom. The bathroom and small closet would remain unchanged except they would be sandwiched between the two rooms now. 

Sherlock had to admit it was a great plan and said so. Robin had a great talent for this. After they settled up payment and Robin promised to get started the next morning, she brought him through the archway to introduce him to her family. Her husband Demetrius was in a room across the hall, and Sherlock legitimately gasped in excitement when they entered. It was a  _ lab _ . A beautiful, sterile white lab full of microscopes and beakers and flasks and  _ was that a centrifuge _ ?

Demetrius laughed at Sherlock’s enthusiasm, and they were quick friends comparing notes about the local plants and soil. Robin eventually rolled her eyes and left without them even noticing, giving up and introducing the rest of the family. She could tell the two men would be a while.

Demetrius brought Sherlock to meet his daughter Maru, who was also interested in science, though her passions were robotics and astronomy. That was understandable, this place would certainly be optimal for stargazing. They attempted to go downstairs to see Sebastian, but the boy didn’t appear to be home or couldn’t hear them. Apparently, he was doing freelance coding work and sometimes had his headphones on to focus.

The rest of the family smiled apologetically, but Sherlock explained he had already met Sebastian, and wasn’t offended. They waved goodbye with a promise Sherlock could come by anytime, which he fully intended on taking them up on. Just access to a microscope alone gave him an electric thrill he hadn’t felt since he arrived. 

He stood outside, and noticed the sun was high, tilting toward the west. Had it really been that long?  _ Time flies _ ... To his left, he heard the sound of water and decided to investigate. It turned out, there was a sizable lake up here as well, with water clear enough to see the bottom for several feet. Sherlock didn’t realize it, but the color of the water was very similar to his own pale eyes.  _ Must be ice melt, probably very chilly...  _ He mused silently.

He heard a soft rustle and turned to find eyes looking back at him. A man was standing in the shade of a tree up the shoreline from where Sherlock stood, staring at him cautiously.

“Have you come to ridicule me?” A wavering voice asked. The man was thin, with stubble of a beard on his prominent jaw and tattered rags passing as clothing. 

“No.” Sherlock tilted his head in interest, but made no moves toward the clearly nervous individual. 

“I haven’t done anything wrong.” The voice insisted.

“I am not the type to judge a person harshly for not having a place to live.” Sherlock replied.

“I have a place to live!” The man sniffs, offended. He pointed backward, up the mountain path. “I have me tent. Up there.”

“Ah, my mistake.” Sherlock took a tentative step forward, hands in his trouser pockets in an attempt to seem harmless. He tilted his head back and to his left. “My name is Sherlock, I moved into the farm land down the mountain that way.”

“Oh.” The man replied, eyes never leaving Sherlock’s face. “I like it there, sometimes went to pick berries.” 

Sherlock made a contrite face. “Alas, I’ve cleared much of the land now...” He took another slow step, looking out at the water.

The man only shrugged and started to come out from behind the tree trunk, finally seeming to accept Sherlock wasn’t here to hurt him. “That’s ok, the forest is still free.”

An idea flashed through Sherlock’s mind like lightning, and he grinned. “So it is. What can I call you?”

He blinked in surprise when the man pulls himself proudly to full height, just as tall as himself, with arms akimbo. “They call me the Wigginator!” Sherlock raised one of his dark eyebrows sardonically. “I mean, uh, no. I am Bill. Bill Wiggens.”

“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Bill Wiggens.” Sherlock turned to plant his gaze directly on his new companion. “I have a proposition for you.”

“No, thank you! I don’t take handouts. I like living on my own.”

“No, no. Nothing like that. I was hoping we could come to a mutually beneficial agreement, of sorts. You know what plants are edible, and I do not. What can I offer you in exchange for this valuable information?”

Wiggens’ eyes sparkled now with understanding. They hash out a deal – He would tell Sherlock which berries, flowers and greens were edible in the forests surrounding Pelican Town, and Sherlock would give him a small percentage of his findings, plus permission to wander through the farm whenever he pleased.

They bid each other farewell with a promise to meet up again soon, and Sherlock began the hike home relaxed and content. He made two new friends today.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!  
> I gladly welcome comments, please let me know how I am doing. I am still very new to this. :)


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for everyone who has read, and commented, and left me lovely kudos to let me know I'm doing okay at this 'writing' thing. :)

Robin arrived with a duffle full of tools as dawn arrived the next morning. They exchange brief greetings in the low light before splitting off to their respective tasks, Redbeard giving her a thorough sniff before licking her hand in acceptance. Sherlock’s normally quiet routine in the garden is serenaded with the discordant clang of metal tools and groan of wood. He was so distracted by  it, he took him two swings of his hoe to realize he wasn’t digging through pure dirt anymore. The dull clunk at his feet drew him back to his own work. 

Redbeard came over to snuffle at the discovery as Sherlock knelt to brush loose earth away from the object that breeched the surface. It looked like a twisted root or a gnarled buried branch at first, but there was a crudely spoon shaped bit of metal attached to one end. Sherlock’s brows pinch together as he turns it over in his hands. Some kind of digging tool? The wooden length was twisted around in a rough handle but the whole thing was so small in his large hands it seems odd it was ever used by an adult, perhaps a child?

He brings his discover to Robin, waiting for her to find a good place to stop her work. She swipes her forehead with the back of her gloves, before taking the item. 

“Can’t be sure... You should take it to Mr. Dimmock. He could probably give you an answer.” Robin hands the odd tool back to Sherlock who frowns gently.

“Sorry. Dimmock?” 

“Have you not met him? He works in the library and museum.” She chuckles at Sherlock’s still confused expression. “It’s on the east side of the river through town... by the blacksmith? No, huh?” 

Sherlock watches Robin nimbly use her axe to draw a simple map in the dirt between them.  _ Why didn’t I know there was more beyond the river? _ _ Must have just assumed this village didn’t extend that far... What else am I missing? _

Giving the carpenter his best chagrined smile, he thanks her and sets the item on the porch to take to the library after the plants were all watered. He was, admittedly, irrationally proud of himself for actually growing a handful of small potatoes and a head of garlic from the handful of seeds he had gathered in the early weeks of mucking about on the farm. He could see the very tiny beginnings of strawberries starting to form, as well. 

He put all the produce in the chest for the mayor to sell for him with a smile, grabbed up the odd tool he found and headed on the path to Pelican Town leaving Redbeard tethered by his water dish and Robin tearing down one of the walls and adding in new stone foundation on the west side of his little cabin. 

-

Turns out, if he had actually gone to see Mayor Lewis at his home, he would have seen the bridge over the river was just on the other side. Sherlock rolls his eyes and plods on to cross it. The river was fairly slow this close to the sea, and he could see fish swimming up and down the current and occasionally jumping at insects. It was warm and quiet, almost unsettling for a town to be so hushed in the middle of the day. Maybe everyone was hiding from the hottest hours indoors. 

The library is painted a dark forest green, all one story but stretched out a fairly large area. Inside, Sherlock sighed happily at the contrast in temperature. Directly ahead of him was a large desk, with a man sat behind it, reading. To his right he saw the shelves of books. It was quite small, actually, not exactly what Sherlock expected. Taking a step forward, he sees why. Even further down to his right, beyond the shelving was another section that was mostly empty counter tops.  _ The so-called museum, then? _

“Well, hey there. What brings you in?” A voice says. Sherlock turns to find the man behind the desk looking at him with both kind curiosity. 

“Hi.” Sherlock clears his throat. “Are you Mr. Dimmock? Robin said you might be able to help me.”

“Sure am.” Dimmock stands, and Sherlock can see he has on a uniform of some kind. Not anything he recognizes, maybe a local scout troop? Wouldn’t that be just  _ sad _ . “And you are?”

There is an edge to his question that makes him stifle a smile. This man seems very protective of his tiny collection of books. Sherlock fishes the weird spoon tool thing from his small backpack and approaches the counter.

“My name’s Sherlock, I moved in this Spring. I found this out on my farm, and I thought maybe...?” He drifts off purposefully, hoping this Dimmock would excitedly cut him off and free him from trying to explain. He isn’t disappointed.

“Well, now, let me take a look.” His interest is muted but unmistakable. He gingerly takes the item from Sherlock and turns it over and over. The wait is unbearably long in silence with only the whir of the small AC unit in the window and Sherlocks deductions of Mr. Dimmock to keep him from fidgeting out of his skin. 

Educated. Archeology? History? One of those. Dull. Spent time abroad, probably for Uni. Grew up in Pelican Town. Returned fairly recently, last 5 years? Give or take. Never married. Most likely lost his job in a bigger city in America, the South judging by the odd drawl to his voice, and came home. What is with the weird costum--

“I believe what you have here is an  archaic digging tool.” Sherlock has to put a hand to his mouth and fake a small cough to hide his groan. He could have told the historian that much! “I’d have to do a bit more reading to narrow down the time frame, but this is an excellent find.” 

Dimmock walks out from behind the desk and heads toward the expanse of empty counters, past the bookshelves. Sherlock follows him, though he was not technically invited.

“This used to be completely full.” Dimmock comments sadly, setting the item on a display. “This is all that is left. I am hoping to refill it with items to celebrate the rich history of this valley.”

Biting the inside of his cheek, Sherlock smiles and nods, trying desperately not to fake yawn. History was never his favorite...

“Say, if you find any other interesting items like this and bring them to me, I would like to make it worth your while.” They start heading back to the entrance of the empty library-slash-museum. “I can give you some compensation in the form of art, maybe the occasional seed packets since you’re a farmer. What do you say?”

“If I find anything else, you’ll be the first person I speak with.”  _ But I hope I don’t find anything else odd. _

“Excellent!” With that, Dimmock opens up his book again. Apparently, their conversation was over.

_ What a terribly odd man. _ Sherlock thinks, with zero sense of irony.

-

He pushes himself back out into the noontime heat and rounds the corner to see what else is over on this side of the river. He passes the Lestrade’s blacksmith and honestly feels a tug to pop in, but the idea of going into a blacksmith when he is already sweltering is completely unappealing. The large furnace outside rumbles, telling Sherlock that it is pumping heat into building and he hears the clangs of smithing inside. Maybe he’ll pop into the saloon later to say hello when the sun has gone down and the danger of swooning from heat exhaustion had passed.  _ Sorry Geoff. Or... Grant? Lestrade. Whatever. _

Beyond that, there was a larger, newer looking building. Painted bright white with dark blue trim, it is clean and modern; a stark contrast from the rest of the village. A sign just off from the front door says in cheerful writing:  _ Under New Management! Come in for new deals! _ It draws Sherlock right in. The automatic double doors and blast of cool air confirm it to be a grocer of some kind. There is adverts on almost every surface, in the same blue and white of the outside: 

Joja-Mart    
Join Us. Thrive.

The overhead fluorescent lights hum and make Sherlock nostalgic for London instantly. After weeks of digging around in the dirt, with blisters and splinters and sunburns, this feels neat and orderly and  _ home _ . 

“Welcome!” A voice calls from nearby, snapping Sherlock out of his odd reverie. He looks to see a man of average height, with pale skin but dark hair laid back with product and equally dark eyes. The glint in those eyes as seeing a new customer gives Sherlock a wealth of information. Greedy, aggressive, troubled, but most importantly: Smart. Very, very smart.

“I’m Jim Moriarty, the new manager!” His voice had a diluted Irish accent, giving it an almost effeminate lilt. It was forced, though, Sherlock knew. Fake. A lie. An act he put on to seem approachable. He wondered if it actually worked on ordinary people. 

Moriarty raised up one hand in greeting and a sharp smile. “Hi-i-i-i.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dun dun DUN! The thot plickens! 
> 
> I swear there is a plot in here somewhere. It's not just going to be 'Sam describes Sherlock farming' for 10 more chapters, I promise.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Redbeard is a good boy.

The very smart, very interesting, probably shifty manager tried to sell Sherlock a membership to Joja-Mart, but it is simply out of his price range right now. He needed that money to get a chicken coop built and about a hundred other small things done around the farm before he could scrape up that kind of capital. While the discounted prices and special deals sounded nice (aka too good to be true), it just was not his top priority right now.

He does, however, decide to take advantage of the air conditioning a little while longer and pretended to peruse the shelves. He happened upon a short blonde woman pushing a bright blue shopping trolley with various sundries inside. In the small seat near the handles sat a child, couldn’t be more than 2 years old, with similar curly blonde hair and striking blue eyes that stared into Sherlock’s ice-pale ones. Her intent gaze made Sherlock smile down at her despite himself. The toddler laughed and hid her face with her hands in mock shyness, causing her mother to turn to look at him. She seemed shocked for a split second, and then smiled.

“It’s not often we have strangers here.” She said in a measured tone.

Sherlock rubbed the back of his neck in a show of sheepishness for startling her. “Hi. I moved in to the farm in March. I’m Sherlock.” 

“Oh, right! Robin and Caroline told me about you.” Sherlock vaguely recalled Caroline being the name of Mike Stamford’s wife, though they’ve only met briefly when he was in buying more seeds or snacks. The blonde woman puts out a hand to him. “I’m Mary, and this is Rosie.”

Sherlock took her hand in his and gave it a quick shake. “Glad to meet you.” He noted the wedding band on her other hand as they parted. He made a few other superficial deductions but decided to hold his tongue.

“Momma!” Rosie whined, clearly tiring of the metal contraption she’s sitting in.

Mary gave Sherlock a rueful smile and bids him goodbye, pushing the trolley along and murmured soft reassurances to her child.

_ Interesting woman...  _ Sherlock thought and turned to leave for home.

-

Back outside, Sherlock spied another bridge across the river, so he doesn’t have to trudge all the way back down by the Library. Just on the other side, there is the trailer home that Pam lived in and an open grassy area that led to the east side of the  Stardrop Saloon. It looked even smaller from this angle, somehow. He recognized the white two-story house he is now passing as the one he had seen next to Stamford’s store, just coming from a different direction this time. Out in front, a man leaned against a large, leafy tree. He looked roughly 25 years old, with brown hair and a scowl. He glared Sherlock down as he passed, crossing his arms across his chest.

_ Rude. _ “Afternoon.” Sherlock said, instead. He figured he better say something, since they were making eye contact. The scowling man doesn’t reply, though. It wasn’t the first time Sherlock had been judged by a stranger, but it felt out of place in this remote location.

He kept walking, past the store and the clinic to the path back to the farm, and Redbeard, and hopefully a cabin worth sleeping in tonight, if Robin had been able to finish her work. Sherlock personally suspected she hadn’t. It was an enormous task, especially by herself, but maybe she was a carpenter miracle worker? Doubtful. She never did say how long it would take...

Eventually, the little house was creeping up the horizon. The heat was breaking away from ‘uncomfortably roasting’ to merely ‘quite warm’, but the sun had tipped over the zenith toward evening and was now full in his face as he approached.

“Robin?” He peeked around the corner of the porch to where he had last seen her. A little way further off, he spotted the redhead leaning on the back fence, drinking from a bottle of water. Redbeard happily jumped up with tail wagging when he noticed Sherlock’s return. 

“Hey Sherlock!” Robin smiled at him as he moved to let Redbeard loose from his leash to roam the yard. He looked up to see one of the walls of his home was still missing, looking straight in on his own bed from outside. The foundation had moved out considerably, though.

“How is the progress?” He asked politely, despite being able to see it for himself. She answered about the new foundation, her plans for putting in new flooring, the approximate dimensions he will have when she finished, but he barely heard it. Internally, he was running through his options of where he could sleep tonight.

He hums a noncommittal noise to buy a bit more time to think. Then, he speaks rather flat and quickly.

“Do you happen to have a rough time frame of completion?” 

“Oh, at least one more day. Saturday afternoon, at the most.” She smiled again. She expects him to be impressed, 2 days (3 at most) is quite a feat for this size of job by one person. Instead, she’s met with another soft hum and a frown. Robin watched while Sherlock’s eyes dart around the missing wall and huff out a small ‘oh’.

“You know... Mrs. Hudson has two spare bedrooms for when family comes to visit.” Her tone was casual, but her eyes glimmered with understanding. The tall farmer seemed to relax just slightly before turning his gaze onto her, finally.

“Right. Sorry, Robin, I was lost in thought.” He gestured a hand next to his head vaguely. “This really is lovely work you’ve done. Are you sure you don’t need any help?”

“Not at all, Sherlock. You’ve got plenty of your own work to do. Don’t mind me.” With that, she got back to measuring and sawing boards for the floors, but she was still smiling.

Sherlock whistled for Redbeard and together they wandered down the path to Mrs. Hudson’s house.

-

“Well, of course you can! Don’t be silly, Sherlock, stay as long as you like.” Dear, sweet Martha Hudson gushed once Sherlock was able to stammer out his request. She doesn’t even wait for him to respond, moving down the hall to a linen closet to get some clean sheets.

“I am so glad Robin is helping you with that house, dear. It’s been so long since someone properly cared for it.” She rambled on about how it was when the last resident was there, how the town was different, going in and out of various rooms to get one of the spare bedrooms ready. Sherlock stood awkwardly in the foyer. “And Redbeard can stay too, of course!” 

The handsome dog started thudding his tail on the wood floors at hearing his name.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the delay. I have been fighting off sickness of both the physical and mental variety the last couple weeks - plus I went back and edited many of the chapters for my horrible 'switch tenses back and forth' issue. I even found it within the same sentence sometimes? Ugh.
> 
> Anyway. Deep, fluffy gratitude for the kudos and comments - they are very helpful and appreciated!


	8. Chapter 8

Mrs. Hudson, apparently, woke even earlier in the day than Sherlock typically did. His first vague impression of being awake involved hearing her puttering around in the kitchen that shared a wall with his loaned bedroom. It was definitely still dark outside. The second impression was a warm, wet tongue sliding up his face from chin to brow and heavy, hot dog breath. 

“ Eugh ! Fine... I’m up.” He muttered. Then swiped the slobber from his face with one hand, and gave Redbeard a hearty scritch behind one ear with the  other. “You win.”

A bit bleary eyed, Sherlock shuffles down the hall to find a bathroom with his toiletries (such as they are) in a bag under his arm. There is a knock on the bathroom door, mid-shower, and Mrs. Hudson’s voice floated through.

“Sherlock, dear, I have to tend to the animals. I’ve left tea and some breakfast out for you!”

“You’re too kind, Mrs. Hudson.” He called back to her. Is this what having friends felt like?

-

After feeding himself and Redbeard, getting properly dressed for the day, and struggling against the urge to snoop through the house while his host was out (he succeeded... for now), Sherlock went out to greet the day. Aforementioned host was crooning a song to a loud mass of chickens who swarmed at her feet while she tossed dried corn by the handful into the air. As he leaned into the fence to watch her routine, a white shaggy goat trotted up to him and stared with its odd, golden rectangular-iris eyes.

“Well, hello.” Sherlock smirked at the friendly fellow. It gave a quiet bleat that almost sounded curious. “Good morning to you, too.”

Sherlock reached out a hand to see if the goat was interested in some head pats. It gave similar bleat and approached. The goat sniffed his palm, hoping for food, and the coarse fur around its nose and chin tickled at his skin. Sherlock turned his hand over, reaching to give the goat a rub between the nubs of its horns. Admittedly, he had never taken to many animals (aside from dogs) so this peaceful moment in the first pale light of the dawn had a strange magical quality to it. Sherlock smiled despite himself, occasionally having to pull his arm back to avoid the goat taking a chance at a nibble of his sleeve. Cheeky devil.

“Hank, you behave!” Mrs. Hudson called, putting away the chicken feed.

Sherlock let out a laugh, patting Hank’s neck affectionately. “I think we are friends.”

“He’s a git, and he knows it.” She approached them, smiling. “Too smart for his own good, that one.”

“Maybe that’s why he likes me.” Sherlock looked into those bizarre eyes again, while Martha laughed. 

-

Since the garden had the sprinklers, and there was nothing to be done at his own house, Sherlock decided to go explore all the parts of the town he’d been making a mental list to visit. He put a leash on Redbeard and set off to the beach first. He followed the river to town, and crossed the bridge to a dense line of trees. As they stepped out from the shade of the trees, a sandy expanse of beach opened up to the view of the sea. There was a fairly large wooden pier jutting out into the water in a roughly square shape, and a ramshackle building at one corner. He could hear the whole structure creak with the movement of the waves. To his left was another small building built on the sand, maybe someone’s home? Beyond that, the river slowed into a wide estuary into the ocean. 

It was thankfully still early in the morning, and not yet blindingly hot, but Sherlock didn’t want to stay much longer and get (another) sunburn. He did, however, want to inspect the building on the pier and maybe see if there were any interesting creatures in the estuary. He wondered if Demetrius had come down here for some biology experiments as it was a very unique ecosystem...

Redbeard tugged at the leash attached to his wrist, barking excitedly at a group of gulls who immediately took flight with raucous screams, and ripping Sherlock out of his head and back to the present.

“Come on, boy. Leave those flying rats alone.” He muttered, stepping carefully through the loose sand toward the pier.

The squat building on the dock had a sign that read “Fishing”, and a man was standing just outside with his eyes far out on the horizon.

“Good morning.” Sherlock said, following the man’s gaze out to the waves covered in the sparkling morning light.

“Isn’t it?” The man was older, Sherlock would put his age about the same as the mayor’s. His greying hair peeked out from under his cap, and the lines in his face told a story suggesting many days of hard work at sea under the harsh sun. Before Sherlock could inquire further, he spoke again.

“The name’s Willy. I run this fish shop.” He turned to look at Sherlock for the first time, then, green-blue eyes seemed to be assessing him. “You must be the new fellow.”

Sherlock only nodded, not used to being on the other end of such intense scrutiny.

“You know how to fish, son?” Willy asked, but turned away from him, walking to the far corner of the shack.

Redbeard tugged on the leash again, trying to sniff at every square inch of the salty wood beneath them.

“I have tried once or twice.” It wasn’t exactly a lie. His father had taken his two sons out fishing but he was the only one that wasn’t mind-numbingly bored within the first five minutes. Sherlock felt the corners of his mouth quirk up at the memory of a young Mycroft trying to daintily climb into a row boat.

Willy returned with a rudimentary fishing pole and thrust it out to him, Redbeard sniffed it in earnest. The fisherman didn’t seem to mind the dog at all, which was good, as he appeared to have zero manners about getting into people’s personal space at the moment.

“I happened to get myself a fancy new one recently, and been trying to find the right person to gift this to. Here, go on, take it.”

“I - I don’t -...” Sherlock snapped his teeth shut, unaccustomed to being flustered into a stutter. “While I am flattered, sir, I barely know how to fish, and you don’t even know who I am.”

“Balderdash, I’ll show you the basics, son.” Willy just waved him off, setting the pole up against the building next to Sherlock. He was not taking no for an answer, it would seem.

“It’s Sherlock.” Tight, terse.

Willy only smiled; his eyes squinted down to almost nothing, buried in years and years of laugh lines.

“See, now I know  ya . Go ahead and loop your pup around this docking peg and we’ll see if we catch anything.”

-

They gave up when the sun started to approach noon, it was just too hot to sit out anymore even with the sea breeze. Sherlock begrudgingly admitted that fishing was slightly less boring than pulling weeds, seeing as there was a chance for a thrilling conclusion of fighting against the will of the fish in between long periods of just sitting there. Willy even gave him a few coins for the miniscule herring he managed to pull up. It was certainly quicker turn around for cash than waiting for parsnips to grow.

After expressing as much gratitude for the gift and the lesson as Sherlock was able, in his own awkward way, he and Redbeard started the trudge through the sand back to town. Near the beach cabin, Sherlock could have sworn he heard an odd noise coming from inside, but it was hard to tell with the pulsing white noise from the surf and the piercing cries from the gulls circling overhead. He stopped, with his head cocked to one side, to see if it happened again.

No... Nothing now. And it was just too oppressively hot to be standing out with no shade, waiting for errant noises from some stranger’s house. He climbed back up to the line of trees next to the river and audibly sighed at the change in temperature. His clothing stuck to him, and Redbeard was panting. 

“I’m sorry, you’re too hot too.” Sherlock knelt to stroke the soft reddish-brown fur on Redbeard’s back. “Let’s go see Gus and get a cool drink, how does that sound?”

He had no idea if Gus would let a dog in his pub, but they were about to find out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sure where Hank the goat came from, but I was typing away and there he was.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! I know it's slow... I am trying to stick to the loose plot of Stardew Valley and I don't think I realized just how much there is? Then also adding in the Mycroft plot on top of all that... whew. Please let me know if you are enjoying it? Feedback really helps! :)
> 
> -Sam


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I want to apologize for the long delay. I haven't had the oomph to write lately, as I'm sure nearly everyone can understand. Then, yesterday I was playing the new Stardew Valley 1.5 update and just had to sit down and get more of this lovely farmer!Sherlock onto paper, so to speak.
> 
> Big thank yous to those who have read and commented, you are my conductors of light. I couldn't do this without you.
> 
> Finally, word of our long awaited army doctor has arrived in town. Gossip ensues. Sherlock grows along with his farm.

Turns out, Gus didn’t give two shakes about a dog in the pub as he was otherwise occupied. The bar area was full, as were most of the tables. Shoulders were hunched in and heads were huddled together, trying (but largely failing) to keep their voices low. Apparently, there was some interesting gossip in town.

Sherlock found a secluded spot near the currently unused fireplace, giving Redbeard scritches behind the ears as he casually eavesdropped.

“How long do you suppose?” Gus asked a short, sandy  brown haired woman that Sherlock hadn’t met yet. It took about twenty seconds to  suss out she was the town doctor.

“It depends. I imagine they have adequate facilities, but...” She seemed hesitant, and sad. Sherlock could tell whomever they were talking about was gravely ill or injured, she cared about them, and was uncertain about their recovery. A fellow townsperson? He scanned the crowd to see if anyone was missing, but it turned out to be several people so that didn’t narrow it down much.

“I still can’t believe he went over there in the first place.” Commented Caroline Stamford, with a sniff of derision. 

Ah. A man who joined the military,  then. Possibly Mary Watson’s husband, given her wedding ring but so far unaccounted for spouse. Not a lot to go on, and she was not currently in the tavern to get a read on, but it seemed likely.

“Come now, Caroline...” Mike said softly. There was a surprising depth of emotion to Mike’s voice. He must be close to the man in question, and was clearly very worried.

Sherlock watched Mayor Lewis give Mike’s shoulder a squeeze, and people went back to their drinks thoughtfully. He took the opportunity to get Gus’s attention to request ice water and some chips.

He was contemplating what could have befallen the military man when the murmuring started back up again.

“Dreadful business, I hope he is able to come home soon.” Lewis said to no one in particular.

Pam, who was already approaching being drunk despite the fact that it wasn't quite yet late afternoon, spoke up then in a wavering voice much louder than everyone else. “I should ‘ ope so! It’s not right leaving Mary and that poor babe alone like he did.  S’not right!”

Well, that confirms that hypothesis then. Sounds like this Mr. Watson didn’t gain many friends by leaving on his current tour.

“For God sakes, Pam, the man could be dying. Have some common decency.” Lewis’s voice was a combination of reprimanding and pleading. Pam muttered into her beer but said no more on the subject.

There was a long, tense silence after that. Sherlock finished his chips, but was loath to disturb the heavy quiet and draw attention to himself by standing up to leave. He was the outsider still, had never met this man everyone was talking and worrying about. He waited what felt like ages for something to happen, so he could slip out, but there was nothing. Gus dried off newly cleaned pint glasses. Molly puttered around behind the bar absentmindedly. Mike and Caroline spoke in hushed voices at their table but were too far away to hear, though he could tell neither of them were happy. Mayor Lewis looked sadly into his seltzer water, watching the bubbles. 

He finally gathered his courage to leave anyway, because he couldn’t stand sitting in the suffocating silence any longer, when the door opened. The blacksmith, Grant (Gavin? Gary?) Lestrade walked in, oblivious to the tension in the room, and took a chair at Lewis’s table. Gus seized the opportunity to try to lighten the mood, striking up a friendly conversation with Lestrade about business, the weather, if he’s been up to the mine recently – Lestrade didn’t seem keen on talking but would nod or grunt a response in between bites of dinner. Sherlock did see him sneaking glances behind the counter when he thought no one was looking, though. He followed his eyes to Molly, and couldn’t help but smirk.

Now that the mood was not so dour, he waved goodbye to Gus and lead Redbeard to the door. The heat struck him as if a tangible wall, but it wasn’t nearly so bad now as when he had gone into the building. The sun had sunk below the trees of the forest to the west, casting long shadows. Sherlock headed that way, back to Mrs. Hudson’s house with fishing pole and trotting dog in tow.

-

After helping Mrs. Hudson call the cows back into the barn for the evening, they sat down to a light supper. Almost immediately upon sitting down, questions burst out of his mouth.

“Who is Mary’s husband? What’s happened to him? Everyone seems upset.”

Mrs. Hudson looked up from her plate, but her smile doesn’t quite meet her sad eyes. “John is Mary’s husband. He’s an army doctor, and he had a second tour come up a few months back. It was quite controversial around here, him leaving Mary to care for little Rosie all alone. Rumor is their marriage wasn’t going all that well, but he never said anything.” She sighed and took a sip of tea, and Sherlock could see the gathering of wetness at her lower eyelashes. “Word is he was... was shot. They didn’t send many details, or maybe Mary didn’t give them, but it sounds like he nearly died and is still in the hospital in Afghanistan. Oh, Sherlock.”

Mrs. Hudson covered her eyes with one hand, shakily setting her tea down with the other. He sat quietly opposite from her, not sure how to proceed. After listening to her sniffle for a few moments, he leans forward to put a hand on her shoulder, squeezing gently at the soft fabric of her shirt.

“You know him well, then?” He offered. That seemed to distract her and she rubs the tears from under eyes with her knuckles.

“Oh yes. I’ve known John since he was born here in town. He and Harry would come play with the chickens after their lessons, since their house is just on the other side of that line of trees on the edge of town. He’s was always a sweet boy, bless him, so helpful and polite.” 

They had both finished eating, and Mrs. Hudson prattled on as they cleaned up the dishes. “Both his parents are gone now. And Harry moved to London when she was old enough, leaving John in that house alone at just fifteen. He would stay here with me more often than not, poor dear.”

Sherlock had many follow up questions, but chewed on this inside of his cheek to let her speak.

“Soon as he was of age, he signed up for the army. He completed his first tour, then went to university in London to be a doctor. When he came back to town after, he seemed... better.  More sure of himself, I’d say. He was still lonely in that house, full of ghosts of the family he lost, no doubt. Then, Mary came along.”

They settled back at the small kitchen table, sipping the last of their tea. The twilight outside cast the room in an ethereal quality of light, and Sherlock was completely taken in by the story. Maybe he was just tired, but Mrs. Hudson’s recounting of John’s life was Not Boring and he absorbed the details happily.

“Sarah was John’s sweetheart before he shipped out, you see. She went off to school and then worked at the clinic under Dr. Hutchins. He retired while John was away so  now, she’s the town doctor.”

So that was who that woman was speaking to Mike at the bar. Sherlock filed her name with her image in his mind palace.

“We all assumed they would fall together again when John returned, seeing as they were close before and both doctors now, but they went on a date or two and nothing seemed to pan out. I thought maybe John wanted her job and was jealous, or maybe he was different after serving. I didn’t want to pry.”

The tone of her voice made Sherlock grin at one corner of his mouth. She most certainly did want to pry, but had the good graces not to do so. They were both quiet for a moment. 

“Oh goodness me, I’ve been blathering too long. I’m for bed, dear.” She gave him a pat on the arm as she left the kitchen. “Thank you for listening to an old woman.”

“Anytime, Mrs. Hudson.” He replied, with a genuine smile.

Sherlock went to the guest room, changed into his bed clothes, and climbed into bed. He found himself curious if this was the same bed that the injured, intriguing stranger he’d been hearing about most of the day had slept in when he was a boy. It was a strange thought, having that kind of connection to someone he didn’t know. He fell asleep, Redbeard at his feet, thinking about Dr. John Watson.

-

By the end of the next day, Sherlock decided Robin was some kind of carpentry wizard. Not only was his house larger and with complete walls and floors, but now had a row of kitchen cabinets installed and she had somehow also managed to build him a larger bed to fit in his new bedroom.

He thanked her with as much sincerity as he could muster, though he fell back on rather stiff high society politeness that he realized much later probably came across as disingenuous or emotionless. Or both. She didn’t seem to mind at the time, just giving him her usual sunny smile while packing up her things. Sherlock wondered what it must be like to have an occupation one loves wholeheartedly. 

Not that The Work was unsatisfying. The thrill of it, being able to use his mind and do something he was truly good at, all while getting to show up the prats at the Yard – It was glorious. Too bad the space between cases was unbearable, his boredom and insecurities rushed back in the second he was no longer needed. Plus, he was pretty certain he was never as thoroughly, contentedly happy as Robin seemed to be, even after he’d solved a difficult case.

He had packed his small bag of things from Mrs. Hudson’s house earlier this afternoon, and thanked her profusely as well for allowing him a place to stay. He was sent home with a paper plate full of freshly baked biscuits and a motherly kiss on the cheek. He had blushed despite himself at the affection, embarrassed that he had actually enjoyed someone caring after him for perhaps the first time in his life.

Now he stood smiling on his property, watching Redbeard thoroughly sniff every square inch of the yard as if it was all new to him instead of only a couple days of absence. The garden looked no worse for wear at being gone, only a few small weeds had made their best attempt at infiltrating. The tomatoes were getting big in the heat, and he had onions and some kind of pepper plant in the corner. He had bought the seeds out of sheer curiosity from Mike a couple weeks ago and was pleased to see it was doing well.

-

Weeks went on with Sherlock barely noticing the passage of time. He watered and weeded and planted new things once in a while to see what would happen. Instead of a small garden, he now had a decent sized field of corn, vegetables and gourds of many varieties, and even a tiny apple sapling growing near the broken-down greenhouse. He was honestly surprised that he managed to collect a small living off of what had been a disaster area of land not even 6 months ago.

When he was satisfied the farm needed nothing more for the day, he would take Redbeard to the river in the forest to fish. It was still mind-numbingly boring in between reeling in a catch, but he found ways to occupy himself. He would wander apace and inventory plants he’d never seen before under the forest canopy, or somedays he would bring jars and try to catch insects to bring home and study. Sometimes, he would splash and play in the river with Redbeard, undoubtedly scaring off all the fish, but left him breathless and happy like he was a child again.

His hair lightened in the summer sun to an auburn brown, while his face and arms had broken out with a considerable smattering of freckles. His body changed, too, filling out with muscle in his shoulders, arms and back where before he was somewhat thin. Some days it took a moment to recognize himself in the bathroom mirror, but he’d always laugh. When coming here, with a secret identity and furtive plans, he had no idea how much this valley farm was going to change him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually am going to keep writing as I'm on a roll right now, and hopefully the next chapter will be up soon. I just wanted to get what I had available now. 
> 
> Please note this is not beta-read and you will not hurt my feelings if you point out spelling or grammar mistakes! I want this to read as smoothly as possible, so you would be doing me a favor. :)
> 
> I hope you enjoy this version of Sherlock, I find I am enjoying learning more about him as I go.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there are two very important things to Sherlock Holmes: a violin and interesting new people to observe.
> 
> This is officially the longest fic I have ever written, and I'm definitely still not done. In fact, this is definitely the beginning. :)

One afternoon in late summer, Sherlock was taking a break to drink cool water on the porch when overtaken by the desire to play violin. He hadn’t brought his when he moved in and every so often he would feel the bone-deep pull. He tried to ignore it, like every other time, but he had nothing else to do and nowhere else to be and the feeling just wouldn’t shake away.

He gave up resisting, and decided to do something about it. He leashed Redbeard up in the yard and told him to be a good boy while he was away. He got a happy bark in response, and took that as agreement.

The now well-trod path into town was quiet, and he picked various berries that Wiggins had taught him were safe to eat and popped them in his mouth. Some days he spent the whole afternoon after his regular chores gathering berries in the woods to sell to Mike for some extra cash. Today he enjoyed the snack as he strolled, wiping the juice off on his jeans.

He stepped into Mike’s shop, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the change of light. Distracted by the spinning rack full of seed packets (nothing new since last time), he didn’t get up to ask about a violin for several minutes. 

“Ah, I’m sorry Sherlock. I just don’t have the overhead to order specialty items like that.” Mike’s eyebrows pulled together, making a deep, contrite furrow in his forehead. “I wish I could help you. I hope you understand.”

Despite his disappointment, Sherlock waved his hand dismissively. “I do. I knew it was a long shot, Mike.”

He bid the shopkeeper goodbye and stepped back out into the warmth of the afternoon sun. He saw clouds out south, over the sea. Maybe there would be some nice rain soon, it had been  dry as dust the last week or so.

Sherlock turned to go home, but then remembered there was another store he could try. That  Joja -Mart place on the other side of the river. He did an about-face and tried not to get his hopes up.

Upon walking through the automatic doors and getting a blast of air-conditioning, Sherlock could feel someone staring at him. It was a decidedly unpleasant feeling, and his pale eyes flicked about the store in search of the culprit. To his right, behind a counter was the dark-haired manager he had spoken to last time he came in, nearly 2 months ago now. Jim something-or-other (Sherlock couldn’t remember his surname) made no attempt to hide the fact that he was looking right at him and their eye contact gave Sherlock a shiver worse than the AC from the door.

“Welcome!” The man sang out cheerfully. “Please do come in.”

Sherlock noted that the smile on the manager’s face could only be described as predatory. Feeling like fresh meat in front of a wolf, he squared his shoulders and walked directly in front of the counter.

“I don’t suppose you sell musical instruments?”

Jim laughed. “Afraid not.” His lightly accented voice lilted and sounded like he was teasing.

“Sorry to waste your time, then.” Sherlock said stiffly and began to turn, almost glad he didn’t have to deal with the slimy manager any longer.

“But...” Jim dangled hope out with the word, daring Sherlock to take the bait. Despite his better judgement, Sherlock raised his eyebrows in an invitation for the man to continue. The wolfish smile returned.

“Should you purchase a  Joja -Mart Membership, maybe something could be arranged? We like to keep our Members happy!” The innuendo in his voice almost made Sherlock blush. Almost. What a creepy man. 

He remembered that membership being mentioned last time, but it was exorbitantly expensive at the time. Now it was... still ridiculous a price, but more manageable. The list of other benefits to membership listed on the counter were moderately enticing. Apparently, they could even repair the derelict bus out on the road for a (also ridiculous) fee.

“Say I were to purchase a membership today, could I special order something now?” Sherlock asked, tilting his head in a manner that suggested he was skeptical. Some hair fell across his forehead at the movement, and was immediately repulsed when he noticed Jim following the curls with his eyes. Was he trying to flirt?

“I can make that happen for you.” Jim replied in a voice almost an octave lower than before, still staring at the locks of hair. Sherlock couldn’t take it anymore. Anything to get out of this building immediately.

“Yes, fine. Here.” He pulled out his wallet and counted out the necessary bills. He put it on the counter, so there could be no ‘accidental’ touching of hands. If Jim was disappointed, he didn’t show it, instead now looking at the money with the same intensity as he had Sherlock only seconds before.

There was a few minutes of paperwork and Jim’s little speech welcoming him to the  Joja ‘family’, but then Sherlock had a copy of an order form for a violin in his pocket and was exiting just as fast as he could. It took almost the full walk home in the late afternoon heat to feel warm again.

-

That Friday, Sherlock decided to be social and go down to the  Stardrop Saloon for dinner. The kitchen Robin had put in was perfectly adequate and he used it happily, but once in a while the lack of human company would finally get to him.

He was pleased to see Mrs. Hudson and Lewis sitting at a table together, and gave them a wave. Gus and Molly busied themselves behind the bar, but they shouted hello when they spotted him. Rather, Gus shouted and Molly blushed.

The table next to Lewis and Mrs. Hudson held two women Sherlock did not see often but vaguely recognized one that lived in the woods near the river, not far from Mrs. Hudson’s ranch. She had long, red hair that framed her face in soft waves and blue eyes. Sherlock had to admit she was aesthetically quite beautiful. The other was even more elusive, but he had caught glimpses of her once in a while in town. Where the red-haired woman was lovely in a soft, feminine way, this one was the opposite. She had a strong jaw and sharp eyes. Her dark brown hair pulled up in a bun, a stark contrast to her pale skin. She was beautiful like a flood swollen waterfall or a dark, wild jungle cat; captivating, but dangerous if you got too close. Sherlock made a special file on her in his mind palace, as she was undoubtedly someone interesting.

Willy the fisherman and Lestrade sat at another table nearby. Mike and Pam sat at the bar, but on opposite ends. Sherlock could hear Sebastian and Abigail by the pool table in the adjoining game room along with the occasional beeping trills of the arcade machines. Though he wasn’t quite sure how it happened, Sherlock felt remarkably at home here, in a crowded little pub. He never would have been in London. Clearly, the countryside charm of this place had an effect on him, and he couldn’t find fault with it. It felt nice to belong.

Lestrade and Willy came over to his small table near the fireplace (still unused) to say hello. They all exchanged questions about each other’s work and they graciously ordered Sherlock a pint. He ended up joining them at their larger table so they could eat and chat together.

About an hour later everyone was pleasantly fed and in their cups (some more than others), when the door opened. Though the evening had darkened to deep twilight, the warmth wafted in for quite a while before anyone entered. Gus set down the glass he was filling slowly and stared. Molly nearly dropped a plate of chips on Pam’s lap with a barely audible squeak.

Gingerly, with help of a cane, a man Sherlock had never seen before walks slowly toward the bar. He had short blond hair and crisply ironed striped button-down shirt with long sleeves, despite the heat of the day. From what little of his face Sherlock could see, the man was trying valiantly not to grimace with each step and failing. He steps up to Mike Stamford’s right side and gives him a weak smile. Mike greets him quietly but with a big smile, and Gus starts filling up a pint without having to be asked. Beside the antiquated juke box in the corner, the rest of the bar is eerily quiet. Mayor Lewis and Mrs. Hudson walk over to bracket Mike and the newcomer on either side, clearly trying not to appear overeager but Sherlock could see the misty quality of older woman’s eyes.

_ That must be John Watson. _

Sherlock’s mind was filled with deductions before he could stop it, his eyes flying over the man in intense scrutiny. He saw the way John hadn’t yet sat on a stool, despite his cane – the limp was psychosomatic. He saw John’s body tense when he turned to his right to greet Mrs. Hudson – his injury must have been to his left torso somewhere and the motion pulled at the scar tissue. He saw the way the people around him smiled with hints of pity in their eyes as they spoke, even Gus when he delivered the beer – John was well liked, but also seen as a sad case. A collector of misfortunes. 

Sherlock bristled at the thought of people looking at him like that, certain it would put him in a state of rage. He was curious if the same went for this John person. It was difficult to tell at this distance with his back turned away from Sherlock, but there definitely was a tension in John’s body. He had to admit that could be due to a myriad of reasons, not least of which John had just entered the tavern at his home town for the first time after what sounded like a near-death experience. Anyone would be anxious in that circumstance. 

_ Maybe not Mycroft, _ Sherlock thinks wryly,  _ the pompous git _ .

Thankfully, Sherlock’s blatant staring had not caught anyone’s attention as rude. Indeed, he was not even the only one so no one noticed. At some point, he was jolted from his thoughts by Lestrade leaving their table to give John a gentle pat on the back and the four of them awkwardly crowded up around John to chat. He couldn’t see the man at all now, so he turned his attention back to his nearly empty pint glass.

“So, he’s home then.” Willy says quietly. Sherlock caught himself rolling his eyes at such an obvious observation and tried to cover it up by tilting his head back to down the last of his IPA. He muttered to Willy that he’d be back, and walked the empty glass to the corner of the bar near Gus and Pam.

“Oh, so he comes home and turns right around to go to the pub, eh?” Pam asked bitterly, eyeing the other end of the bar with a mixture of jealousy and anger. Sherlock gave her a quick look, and decided she must have an absent spouse and was projecting her feelings onto John and Mary’s relationship. Her chronic drinking problem was no doubt connected to that loss as well. A pang of pity for her jolts through him. After all, he knew all about using chemicals to escape the harshness of reality.

He paid Gus for his meal and returned to the table to bid Willy goodbye. He doesn’t even bother saying goodbye to Lestrade, knowing if he did, he would be roped into an introduction to John. He had used up all the socialization energy he had for today, and wasn’t feeling up to it. Hopefully, he would get another chance to meet John soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just couldn't stop writing! 4k+ words in one day... That is a lot for me. Phew!
> 
> I really hope you like it. Again, if you see any glaring errors, please feel free to let me know. I would hate to break your immersion with weird phrasing or typos. Or, just tell me what you think! That would be lovely. :)
> 
> Special thanks to emilycare for taking such an interest in this project. <3


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bees, Harvest Time, and Sherlock gives himself a case.

Not long after that, Sherlock awoke with the sun and was just headed out to begin his work when he was greeted by Demetrius, Robin’s husband. Seems everyone here has an odd habit of showing up at dawn and waiting for him to step outside to the porch, and Sherlock had eventually gotten used to it. Maybe they know he has work to do and hope to catch him for a chat before he’s exhausted. Regardless, he is excited to have Demetrius over and invited him in for tea. Sure, he may be outside an hour or so later in the day than usual, but he hadn’t had a chance to visit and borrow his lab yet, and was keen on getting to know him better.

They briefly exchange pleasantries about their current projects. Demetrius seems especially interested in the small cave Sherlock has found on the corner of his property, and requests permission to investigate for himself. Sherlock could tell, though, there was a specific reason for the visit. He tries to wait patiently for it to come out in conversation naturally, but his companion was now distracted by possibilities of cultivating rare mushroom species in the soil of the cave. Not that this wasn’t immediately fascinating – Sherlock would insist later that they try it out – but there was only so much small talk he could reasonably suffer.

“Sorry, I will have to get out there eventually.” He tried to sound lightly teasing instead of annoyed. “Is there something I can help with?”

Demetrius’ entire face shifted to a kind of chagrined surprise, recognizing he had gone off on a tangent. Apparently, this happened to him often judging by the sheepish grin he was sporting.

“Right! Apologies, I know you’re busy.” He finished off his cup of tea before continuing. Sherlock grit his teeth. “It’s more a matter of how I can help you, actually. How familiar are you with bees and their influence of crop harvests?”

Needless to say, by the end of that visit, Sherlock had a new diagram of how to build himself beehouses and a much deeper appreciation (dare he say, affection?) for the man who was waving goodbye. He could hardly contain his elated anticipation. And by the end of that week, wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of a work glove, Sherlock was the proud owner of two new hives. 

Demetrius brought over a wooden box with tight-knit screens on either end, filled with what he called “Package Bees” that he had ordered from a village nearby with a professional apiary. The box contained a queen and thousands of worker bees. Together they carefully transferred them into the first house, with the hope that once they were settled in and thriving, they would expand to the second hive. Later, Demetrius sent him a note saying he had read the pheromones worker bees put out to signal a suitable place for a colony smell of lemongrass, so Sherlock dabbed Lemongrass Oil he had found in Mike’s shop on both entrances to the hives. He would deny it hotly if anyone asked, but Sherlock was smitten with the idea of nearby colonies finding his hives and deciding to move in. He checked on the hives every day.

-

The first week of September, two weeks after John Watson arrived home, Sherlock found a note in his mailbox that alerted him his special order from  Joja -Mart was ready to be picked up. He made the trek into town both filled with gritty annoyance it had taken so long and alight with hope to play again. Jim the Manager was speaking with Mary Watson in the soup aisle, so another employee helped Sherlock and he was absolutely fine with that.

While the young lady in a blue apron went to the back room to pick up the violin, Sherlock kept feeling the heat of black eyes at the back of his head but he pointedly pretended not to notice. He was determined not to let the creep manager ruin this long-awaited gift to himself. When he stepped outside, violin case in hand, he let out a deep sigh, both of relief to be rid of the attention and nerves at the prospect of getting his prize home.

He allows himself to open the case when he is all the way back inside the cabin, setting it gently on the kitchen table. The violin itself is nothing special, cheaply made and intended to be a learning instrument for a school-aged child, and yet it still filled Sherlock with a wave of emotions. He lifted it, tested its weight, turned it over to inspect the wood grain and the curve of it, before finally settling it up under his chin. The tuning of the strings came with ease of muscle memory, but he quickly found that the callouses specifically for playing had softened and the callouses from working the land had made his grip on the slender neck of the instrument slightly different. A frown pulled at one side of his mouth, and struggled with the upwelling of what felt like mourning for the piece of himself he had lost while he was here. For the first time in a long while, months, he missed the Sherlock he had been in London. 

He knew it would take a week or so to relearn this new grip and get the pads of his left hand back in playing shape, and that was irksome when he wanted to dive right back in where he left off. There was nothing else he could do but start now, so he flicked through the library of sheet music he kept in his mind palace for something appropriate for his triumphant return but not too intricate to be thrown off by his clumsy hold and soft fingertips. 

Despite all this, the first note he pulled into the air with the bow settled deep in his chest and he sighed out all the built-up longing, pouring it into the music. 

-

Late summer crawled into Autumn proper. The heat had finally subsided, the leaves started to change into riots of color, and Sherlock was the busiest he’d ever been. He was harvesting wheelbarrows of corn and other vegetables as fast as his body could allow. He grimly thinks to himself he may need to find someone to help him next year if the farm grows any larger. That thought was followed by a quieter anxiety, almost imperceptible: Next year? Will I still be here? A twinge of sadness squeezes in his chest, but he doesn’t have time to analyze it. There is simply too much to do to think about _feelings_. 

Between harvesting everything before it could rot, taking care of a lively dog, checking in on his bees, peeking in on the progress of the mushroom spores in the cave, and trying to squeeze in some violin playing once a day, Sherlock barely had time to think of anything outside of his four walls and handful of acreage. The proceeds from all his crops rolled in steadily now, and he hoped it was enough to keep them fed for the long months when planting was not possible, but there was no way to be sure. Nothing about this was certain. He hadn’t even meant to be a ‘real’ farmer when he came here, just pretend enough to get by. Now it was his only lifeline – no Mycroft to call when the funds ran dry.

Once in a while, he would get brief visits from those who he was closest to in town. Mrs. Hudson regularly came to check in on him, give him the latest town gossip, and sometimes even help him with some chores. Occasionally Wiggins would pop by and snag an overripe veg to munch on and chat him up. And of course, Redbeard was a constant and loyal companion that took the edge of the worst of his boredom or loneliness when it hit. He even sometimes had one-sided conversations with the bees when he checked for honey. 

He was pleased to see a second colony filling out the other house now, and wondered if he should build two more in the Spring. He told them about the pumpkins that had ripened up nice and orange, and thanked them for the help. He went on about how he felt close to being back to his prime violin playing acumen, and decided to try playing to them sometime as an experiment. They listened as they went about their work when he told them his fears about the coming winter, hoping they would survive, hoping _he_ would survive. What if all this work hadn’t been enough? When he couldn’t afford any groceries in late winter, he would have to slink back to London with his self-made mission a failure.

The days before Halloween had a handful of visitors who wanted to pick out a pumpkin to carve a face into. Notably, Mary Watson and Rosie arrived with a small red wagon in the early afternoon of a particularly crisp day, bundled in jackets and scarves. Despite only meeting them a few months ago, Sherlock saw Rosie had grown quite a bit. She toddled around with flaxen curls hanging in her eyes to each of the round, orange gourds, patting each one with gentle enthusiasm rather than picking one. He could see the amused smile on Mary’s face and approached her side. They stood that way for a while, admiring the cute antics, before Sherlock’s curiosity was too much to contain.

“Ah, so – John is not with you?” If Mary was surprised at the question, she didn’t show it. In fact, her face didn’t move at all from watching Rosie.

“Couldn’t walk this far on his cane. Shame he is missing this.” He noted there wasn’t an ounce of emotion in her voice, and was confused by it. He’d never been married, nor in a relationship with someone who returned from war with a harrowing injury, but surely Mary felt _something_? He scanned her body language and clothing briefly and the confusion fell away minutely. She was angry. At John, most likely, but the why could be a handful of reasons and he felt it best not to speculate.

Sherlock only hummed a non-committal response, and they were silent again except for when Mary would giggle at something Rosie did that was especially adorable. She paid him for a small pumpkin when the toddler had thoroughly exhausted herself trampling among the vines, and set off to pull both child and doomed vegetable back home.

As much as he had wanted to stay out of other people’s business, the concept of a mystery – even as small as a case of disgruntled spouses, was tantalizing. Sherlock rationalized to himself that his daily chores were starting to slow down, and soon be gone completely. He knew being left to his own devices cooped up in the house all winter would eventually drive him around the bend. He would be helping out his neighbors who were obviously going through a rough time, that he was doing the kind thing by investigating what had soured the Watson marriage. 

_ Yes, _ he decided,  _ the game was on. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Never thought I'd be doing research into how to populate new beehives, but here we are. Side Note: I kind of want my own bees now...
> 
> Thank you very much for reading! I am realizing just how enormous of an undertaking I took on with this story. There are characters that I had meant to introduce ages ago and haven't found a way to cram them in yet... I swear there is an underlying plot to this and I'm not making it all up as I go. Just... most of it. :/
> 
> Let me know what you think? Or if you see a big ol' typo, or if you just want to say hi... I'm simply happy you're here reading this. <3


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the universe (me) decides to be a little mean to poor Sherlock, but then there is also good news.

Late October rolled on through and soon there was nothing left to harvest. The corn stalks were yellowed and dry, rustling loudly in the wind. Here and there, there were pumpkins that were too small or misshapen to be used for Halloween decorations that had started to soften back to the earth. What started as a tiny garden in a hard-fought strip of open land was now a big swath of decay. Sherlock would be out each morning still, but instead of tending and watering and picking, he was observing the rate of decomposition.

One day, he tried out the scythe to take down the rows of corn. Given his only frame of reference for use of this tool was television shows, he had arrogantly assumed it would be a simple task. As with many things in Stardew Valley, though, it was significantly more difficult than he anticipated. Almost immediately he realized Redbeard needed to be tied to the fence out of range, as the overeager dog would follow down the row barking at the falling stalks. Then, the motion of the scythe took getting used to, in the hopes of getting a rhythm that didn’t put too much strain on his back. Still, by the time he had finished and the stacks were piled up in a compost heap, Sherlock was fully worn out.

He looked out on the field, sweating and puffing, but feeling rather proud of himself. He let Redbeard free and they chased each other about for a few minutes. Sherlock cock back a leg, aiming for a small pumpkin like a football. He envisioned punting it a few yards, then running about like a madman yelling ‘Goal!’ with Redbeard’s enthusiastic barking for applause.

The pumpkin was much too rotten to be punted, as it turned out. Instead of a satisfying kick, Sherlock’s foot sank into the tough gourd and held, sending all his forward momentum as a shockwave up his leg and he tripped, twisting his ankle awkwardly as he fell. He was met with a face full of dirt and stinking, decomposing vines. 

His first thought as he gathered his wits was ‘ _ Happy no one was here to see that. _ ’ The second thought, as he painfully extracted his foot from the mess of pumpkin guts was ‘ _ Good thing this happened after the season was over _ .’ Sherlock rolled onto his back, gingerly testing his ankle when he found himself suddenly greeted by a face-full of concerned dog licks. He couldn’t help but huff out a dry laugh as he reached out to rub behind Redbeard’s ears to reassure his furry companion while he sat up. 

Nothing appeared to be broken, but Sherlock was procrastinating trying to stand up regardless. He let Redbeard lick off dead plant matter from his face for another half minute or so before gathering his good left leg up and attempted to stand. The pressure of his body weight stung the pulled ligaments around his right ankle, causing him to involuntarily lift his foot again like a giant flamingo.

“Fantastic.” He grumbles bitterly while limping back to the front porch. He leashes Redbeard there and takes a few deep breaths, leaning heavily on the column at the top of the stairs. He might have some ice? At very least, he knew the bathroom had some ibuprofen to combat the swelling. Hopefully, that plus some rest will be enough to be back at full capacity soon.

-

Hours later, on his second dose of ibuprofen and bored witless trying to rest, Sherlock admitted to himself that it was not working. His ankle looked more like a reddish navel orange than a joint, and he was miserable. He pulled on his jacket, limped awkwardly out the door, and started the journey to town. It was slow going, and twice he nearly turned back. Why had he convinced himself to do this? By the time the clinic came into view it was creeping to late afternoon and his entire right leg felt afire.

The door was locked – the clinic didn’t need to be open many hours with this small of a village. Sherlock rapped on the wood with his knuckles, leaning heavily into the door frame. For about twenty seconds, he feared he would have to go searching for someone else to help him, when he heard a noise from inside. He lowered his head and breathed out his relief loudly when Sarah opened the door.

“Hey  neighbo —whoa! Sherlock, what happened?” The tawny-haired doctor put out her arms to help him stand, leading them both to a chair in the clinic’s front room. He was tense and flustered, both from the long walk and the fact he needed help at all. Still, he sat when prompted and pulled up the right leg of his trousers to show her the damage. There came a list of questions; Sarah gently manipulated his foot and he grunted through the answers.

“You  _ walked _ here?” Sarah’s voice had a mixture of flabbergasted and accusatory.

“What other choice did I have?” Sherlock snaps back, rubbing his forehead. Clearly this was a bad idea. He should have just stayed home with his leg up, taken care of it himself, like he always does.

Sarah sighs, but says nothing. Together, they manage to get him to an exam room. Stripped of his shoe and sock, his ankle was garish red and purple under the bright lights. He struggled through more poking and prodding without ripping into Sarah verbally in retaliation, but only just.

“Ok, it is sprained but not broken.” She announced finally, turning to dig through a cabinet. She started a pile of equipment on the counter. Sherlock took the opportunity to watch her, distracting himself from the stiff pain attacking his leg. He begrudgingly admired her quiet, confident efficiency. When she applied the Ace bandage, her hands were steady and gentle. When he had refused pain medication, she didn’t press the issue. He left the clinic close to sunset, with a bound-up ankle and new ice pack, Sherlock realized two things:

Sarah is an excellent doctor.

He had completely missed a prime chance to ask questions about John Watson.

-

The next morning, he was icing his ankle on the sofa with a cup of tea when Mrs. Hudson’s tell-tale knock announced her arrival.

“It’s open, come in.” He projected in that direction, not keen on getting to his feet.

Turns out, Martha Hudson had acquired some help, because bartender Gus and blacksmith Lestrade shuffled in after her, carrying large serving plates and Pyrex dishes covered in cling film.

“What is all this?” Sherlock sat up slowly, eyeing the bizarre intrusion.

“Oh, I heard about your poor leg, dear!” That small-town grapevine sure is speedy. “I didn’t want you to go hungry. These strong, young men are here to do the heavy lifting.” She winked at him and expertly directed the food put away in the kitchen. Sherlock snapped shut his mouth upon realizing it was hanging open.

He watched, still overwhelmed by the show of neighborly affection, as the three of them attempted to chat him up, played with Redbeard, told stories about the town for well on an hour. They didn’t seem to mind at all that he was quiet, and despite being utterly floored at the thought of having  _ friends –  _ Sherlock felt like the small house was warm and full of life with their presence. 

“Say, what’s this?” asked Gus, noticing the violin case. “Do you play, Sherlock?”

“Ah, yes. It... helps me think.”

“Will you play something?” Lestrade urged, handing the case to Sherlock.

“Oh, yes please, Sherlock! How lovely.” Cooed Mrs. Hudson, clasping her hands.

Sherlock would have refused, using his pain as an excuse, but the rapt looks on all their faces was too much. He didn’t want to let them down after all of their kindness. Closing his eyes, he flipped through his internal music library before settling on a piece. The violin settled under his chin, and he played as well as he could while seated in a squishy sofa instead of standing. He stopped as the end of the first movement, feeling his cheeks warm at their intense gaze. He had played for tutors and his parents, and even in large concert halls once or twice, but never this small,  _ intimate _ of settings. 

Mrs. Hudson gushed her appreciation as they gave a short round of applause. Gus stared thoughtfully and moved to sit directly across from Sherlock.

“That is quite a talent.” He squinted, looking pensive again. “What would you say to a little business arrangement, Sherlock?”

“Now, Gus, let him be.”

“I wasn’t finished  Hudders , let me speak!” Gus scolded, and Sherlock barely caught the scoff before it escaped.  Hudders ! How delightful. “Of course, I don’t mean before your leg is healed up. When you’re feeling up for it, I would love for you to play at the  Stardrop , in exchange for dinner and whatever tips you make. I’ve been needing something for entertainment besides that old jukebox for a while now.”

Sherlock leaned forward with interest. That would do quite a bit for keeping him afloat during the winter. He thought over pros and cons while replacing the violin to its case.

“How often would I be invited to play?”

“Once or twice a week, if you want. Depending on holidays, of course.”

“I may not be able to do that once spring comes around.”

“I understand that. The farm should come first, anyhow. I need the fresh produce!” Gus laughed, slapping at his own thigh. 

“Very well. Done.” Sherlock extended his hand and Gus took it in his with enthusiasm. 

“Excellent!”

“How nice, our own local musician.” Mrs. Hudson positively beamed at him, and Sherlock couldn’t help but smile back. Greg said nothing, but gave him a rough slap on the back which he took to mean the blacksmith approved as well.

After they had made their goodbyes and Sherlock had his leg up with the ice pack again, he recalculated how much food he had stored, how much money he had, plus this new free meal twice a week with potential for tips... Gus may have just single-handedly saved him from going hungry.

Maybe he will be here for next year’s harvest, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know where this came from, other than I wanted him to have an excuse to talk to Sarah, but then... he didn't even ask about John?? I don't know, sometimes this Sherlock just does what he wants and ignores me.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sherlock is a gossiping violinist.  
> And our Johnlock boys speak to each other for the first time! Yay!

It takes the rest of the week for Sherlock to feel comfortable to put weight on his ankle again. Then, another two after that for the bandage and ice to no longer be used at all. He still would occasionally step just so and flinch, but  overall he has made a full recovery. After that, he began playing at the pub on Friday and Saturday nights when there are the most people in attendance. Gus fed him up as promised and typically his violin case had a few quid in it when he left for the night.

He started experimenting with playing more fiddle and dance music than his typical baroque and classical repertoire, and that was received very well. One night, he looked up from his frantic bow work to see Robin and Demetrius dancing – rather poorly, too. Poor Robin’s foot was consistently trod on. He couldn’t suppress his grin. He’d never felt this way in London, truthfully. Happy, suffuse with light. Alive. Forming meaningful connections with people. Sure, some were dull and ordinary, but a surprising number of people in this little country town were really quite interesting to be around. The idiots per capita was remarkably low here.

Not that it was entirely free of idiots. He would run afoul of Sally Donovan and her boyfriend, Phillip Anderson, whom had stared rudely as he walked past months ago. They would never go so far as to say anything outright, but their looks said more than enough about their feelings toward him. Poor, drunken Pam was borderline inappropriate in general, but never directly at Sherlock. He would watch at the end of the night, as he packed up his violin, a young man would arrive to take her home when she was too besotted to walk on her own anymore. Sherlock figured that was her son, though he rarely ever saw the man around town beyond this circumstance. The son was tall and thin, not unlike Sherlock before coming here, with a heart-shaped face covered in freckles and bright red hair that fell to his jaw line. His affectations portrayed him as painfully shy, and trying to not appear ashamed of his own mother.

One Saturday night after everyone had left, Sherlock asked after him to Gus.

“Ah, yeah. That’d be Pam’s son Victor.” Gus sighed, a sad sound. “His father came through town one summer, on holiday or something. Swept Pam off her feet, as it were, but once he heard Victor was coming along, he about tripped over himself to leave. Pam’s never quite been herself after that.”

Sherlock heard the anger and disappointment in Gus’ words, and frowned. No wonder Pam had such a bitter spot for John Watson being on a whole other continent while his daughter was so young.

-

The weather started to turn bitterly cold at the start of December, but that didn’t seem to stop people from coming out to the pub. The fireplace was always well stocked and crackled loudly behind the murmur of voices. It was a warm place to gather and gossip as the nights grew long. Sherlock took advantage of it, nudging alcohol-loosened conversations toward the Watsons. It wasn’t difficult, John’s return had been a large talking point on everyone’s mind for the last few months.

Piecing together several threads of gossip, Sherlock was able to map out much of the story. Mary had arrived in town while John was abroad on his first deployment. She worked at the  Joja -Mart and stayed at John’s house that he apparently had rented out while he was gone. When his tour was finished, he was mostly in London to complete his medical degree but came home once in a while. Hence, how he met Mary, since she was living in his childhood home. John would stay with Mrs. Hudson, not wanting to toss out his tenant, but from what Sherlock could gather, the two went from business relationship to friendly, then friendly to dating. John had proposed just after graduating, and moved back into his house with Mary.

_ How convenient. _ Sherlock thought wryly. After that, there wasn’t much left. They got married, Mary quit her job, Rosie came along, and then John was called back to war last year. Until a bullet brought him back, that is. Sherlock got many varied versions of how John was injured, no one could seem to agree. Sarah seemed the most reliable, but even she didn’t have all the facts. Some said John dove heroically in front of a comrade to save them, others felt he may have gotten himself into a dodgy situation through lack of fore-thought. Willy waxed poetically about John nearly dying in the baking desert heat, while Mike Stamford looked sadly into his pint. At very least, all agreed he had been shot, took many weeks to recover, and now he was walking with a cane while barely holding on to his marriage.

“The poor dear.” Mrs. Hudson sighed one evening. Her love and concern for the army-doctor was very clear; she considered John family. “He’s had to go through so much hardship.”

Occasionally, Sherlock would gather different types of information because John would be in attendance. He eavesdropped when possible (though the violin did not make that easy) and observed.

John Watson was.... interesting.

Even if Sherlock hadn’t been absorbing all the information he could from the locals, the physical and emotional tension in John would have been obvious. He laughed and smiled when talking with the people who approached, but when he thought no one was looking, John was anything but happy. Sherlock watched John hunch tightly over his pint glass, staring into it with a kaleidoscope of emotions. Anger and sadness, mostly, if Sherlock was assessing his facial expressions correctly. If he were forced to make a guess, Sherlock would say John was lonely. Why, he couldn’t quite say. In Sherlock’s eyes, the army-doctor had a decent number of friends, people who cared about him. Perhaps an angry wife, but still significantly more close relationships than Sherlock could speak of. John’s pint would turn into half a dozen or more empty glasses before he would wave goodbye to Gus and awkwardly exit with his cane into the cold.

-

One Friday night at the  Stardrop Saloon, after a week of cleaning his cabin within an inch of its life and fishing as much as possible for some spare cash, Sherlock was greeted by Lestrade as he came in the door. He stamped the light dusting of snow off of his boots as Greg leaned in close.

“Listen, Sherlock. I need you to do me a favor.” Greg’s hand disappeared into his pocket and reappeared with an amethyst crystal. It was about three inches long and approximately as big around as his thumb, with lovely formed points at both ends. The deep purple color was pleasingly marbled with white, and perfectly translucent. Sherlock found himself impressed by the stone. It’s not easy to find the quartz variant with both great form and few imperfections. “Will you give this to Molly for me?”

Sherlock scrunched up his face in confusion. “What?”

“It’s her favorite, and I want her to have it. I- I can’t do it, mate. Please?”

Sherlock groaned and rolled his eyes at the blacksmith, but relented. He knew Lestrade was both terminally shy and absolutely smitten with the petite assistant barkeep. He took the crystal and slid it in his trouser pocket until he could find a good time to catch Molly’s attention.

The opportunity presented itself when Sherlock took a break from playing a couple hours later. He went around the bar to flag Molly down. He fished the stone out of his pocket and held it up to her. Before he could say a word, she was flushed pink and giving him such an affectionate smile that Sherlock was caught in it like deer in headlights.

“Is that for me? How did you know it’s my favorite, oh wow!” She gently took the amethyst from his fingers and admired it in the light.

“I got it from Lestrade to give to you.” Sherlock tried to explain, but he found himself gently dismissed with a wave of Molly’s hand.

“Oh, I don’t mind where you bought it. Sherlock, this is a wonderful gift. I can’t thank you enough.” Molly carefully put the stone in the pocket of her apron and it a pat of safekeeping.

“Er... No, I-” This was not going according to plan. “You needn’t thank me, it  wa -”

“Hey! One more over here.” Pam called suddenly from the far end of the bar.

“Sorry, I have to get back to work.” Molly then, to Sherlock’s sputtering amazement, rest her hands on both his shoulders to lift herself up on her tiptoes and put a quick kiss to his cheek. She whispered another thank you and pulled on the beer tap to start filling a glass.

Sherlock stood, dumbfounded, for a few moments then turned to look guiltily at Greg. The blacksmith was blinking at him with a look of confusion that would have been comical in any other context. Sherlock scuttled back to the other side of the bar and to his violin, hoping to forget the whole encounter in its entirety. Was it possible to hide a flush of mortification with a small stringed instrument? He was going to try.

-

The next day, one week before Christmas, Sherlock formally met John Watson.

He was setting himself up in the corner, as per usual, when Mrs. Hudson approached with John close behind. They had been eating at their own table but then the older woman had made an exclamation and practically marched the blond in Sherlock’s direction with a thunderous look.

“Sherlock, John here says you’ve not introduced yourself yet? Shame on you, he’s been home for months!” Mrs. Hudson laid on her best disappointed gran voice, and Sherlock rubbed the back of his neck with an involuntary contrite flinch. To his credit, John similarly looked ashamed at causing a scene.

Sherlock stood from his stool with hand outstretched and clears his throat. “Of course. Apologies. As Mrs. Hudson astutely pointed out, I’m Sherlock. I live in the cabin on the farm next to her ranch.”

John took Sherlock’s hand in his, squeezing in a firm shake. He then adjusted his weight on his cane, looking up at the taller man with a ghost of a smile. “I’ve seen you around, yeah.”

The two men looked at each other while an unwieldy silence fell and no one seemed to know how to fill it. Martha Hudson’s eyelashes flickered in a barely perceptible annoyed eyeroll.  _ Boys. _ “What are you going to play for us tonight, Sherlock?” She prompted.

“Mm, nothing new, I’m afraid.” Sherlock’s hand was on the back of his neck again, unthinkingly. Something about scolding Mrs. Hudson had put him in awkward teenager mode. “I need to order some new sheet music if I’m going to keep my lovely audience entertained.”

“You’re very good.” John commented casually, causing Sherlock to startle slightly. The compliment caught him off guard, and a cautious but genuine smile crept into his face.

“Thank you.”

John only shrugged in response, and the silence settled in again. It took a beat or two for Sherlock to realize John was struggling to keep his mild-mannered façade up and was probably itching to go back to his dinner.

“Well, I’d better get started...” He said, flicking open his violin case in the hopes  Hudders would take the hint. Sherlock sighed in relief when she did, letting John lead the way back to their table. He situated himself on the bar stool, stretched his neck and shoulders, cradled the instrument up under his chin and tuned it by ear with well practiced, efficient accuracy. Then, he started with some Classical, nice background music for dining and a good warm up for his fingers.

Every once in a while, Sherlock would feel eyes on him. That was fairly normal when he played in the small pub, but this had a certain intensity that pulled at him to find the source. Determined to focus, he ignored the urge to look until the current song was over and he could take a break. When he looked up, though, no one seemed to be paying him any attention.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have passed 20k words... I don't know what to say. I've never done anything like this before and it's all a bit big and scary.  
> I swear there is a (very loose outline) plot for this story. I hope it's not too rambly... I feel like if I speed it up we will miss all the lovely character and relationship development?? Let me know what you all think.
> 
> Any comments would be greatly appreciated. :)
> 
> -Sam


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sherlock goes on adventures, and there is angst.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, firstly I would like to say: thank you so much for being here and reading this. :)  
> Secondly, sorry for the long delay. I wrote a little thing for Johnlock Anniversary that took up some time, and some other life things have been sapping my creative spark. (My horrible job I hated fired me, the absolute tossers.) Plus, this chapter was difficult for me to write, emotionally. I had to dig up unpleasant memories to move the plot along.
> 
> As a little heads-up, if you are affected by yelling/verbal fighting, there is some at the end of the chapter. Please stay safe, I don't want to hurt anyone (other than our poor fictional boys, but I promise they will be happy in the long run).

When he wasn’t playing on the weekends, Sherlock assigned himself projects to keep the boredom away. He spent two weeks planning out and implementing a cobblestone path that ran from his porch to the fence that separates his land from Mrs. Hudson’s ranch. It wasn’t perfect, and it meandered to avoid a large pond near the south edge of the land, but it was much improved from the barely-there gravel walkway he had attempted before. A lot of sweat, some blood, and choice expletives went into digging away the top layer of hard, frosty soil and replacing it with chunks of stone he had split apart into roughly flat pieces. While he was proud of the final product, mostly he just hoped Mrs. Hudson would stop dropping thinly-veiled hints about having to trudge through tall grass and mud “at her time of life” in order to visit him.

Somedays he would bundle himself up to go catch fish and sell them for some spending money. Others, he would leash up Redbeard and go exploring. There were plenty of places nearby he hadn’t had time to really investigate, and now was as good a time as any. He went deep into the forest to the west of the ranch and found an enormous log, nearly as tall as himself, blocking the path. Sherlock hadn’t brought his axe with him, and honestly doubted the rusty old thing would be up for the task, but there was clearly more path beyond so there must be  _ something  _ beyond the fallen tree. He peered over the top with intense, pale eyes, trying to divine what could be in the shadows for a while before he felt the leash tug in his hand. His energetic and now impatient companion was trying to sniff further into the brush. It wasn’t too dense, so Sherlock reluctantly left the mysterious path behind and let Redbeard lead him into the ferns and bushes.

Before too long, he found himself with a large hill on his right side, and the vague shape of a building looming on top. They walked closer and Sherlock was surprised to discover a squat stone tower up on the rise, with crooked stone steps leading up to its door. Bizarre purple smoke wafted lazily from the chimney. It was so out of place, Sherlock’s mental gears ground down to a stop for a moment. A blur of possible explanations (and some fantastical, nonsensical ones) came and went, but then a darker, oily voices from deep in his mind said:  _ Maybe they are making drugs in there. _

_ “ _ Nope.” Sherlock uttered aloud to the quiet forest, overenunciating the ‘p’. He turned on his heel and led Redbeard back the way they had come, immediately deleting ever seeing the tower from his Mind Palace. The very last thing he needed while trying to hide out in this tiny town in the country was to become the Village Addict. Wiggins had already offered him psilocybin mushrooms he had found earlier in Autumn. Twice. Thankfully, Sherlock had been much too busy at the time to indulge. That wasn’t as much the case now, and his resolve to stay clean was unsteady at the best of times. So, now he was  fleeing making a hasty tactical retreat back home to remove any hint of temptation.

The next time Sherlock went out on a walk with Redbeard, they go the other direction to investigate the derelict bus out on the public road. It was snowing lightly, giving the countryside a hushed, soft atmosphere. Redbeard jumped and snapped at the snowflakes, trying to eat them then looking baffled every time he ‘missed’ when he caught nothing more tangible in his mouth than a drop of water. Sherlock can’t help but shake his head and grin affectionately at the goofy creature. When they reached the bus, there was trace snow building up on the bare tree branches and on the pavement around the bus.

Sherlock had basic working knowledge of mechanics but had little to no interesting in seeing if he could repair the broken-down vehicle – he was more interested in analysing it. How long had it been here? Where did it used to drive to and why? Was there more to this weird little town that he was ignorant of at the next bus stop? He knew Pam used to be employed to drive it, but was obviously now jobless with it out of commission. Judging by the grime build-up on the paint and faint layer of moss on the roof, Sherlock supposed it had been sitting for at least a year, perhaps two. Since it hadn’t looked particularly fresh when he arrived in early spring, he nudged his estimate closer to two years. The tires were flat enough the rims were nearly to the ground, and had a fine grit deep in the tread. Sand, maybe?

While Sherlock pondered all this, Redbeard snapped at snowflakes contentedly. A rustle in a bush on the fair side of the road captured his full attention, suddenly stock still and primed to strike. A bird burst out of the foliage into the air, sudden and loud, and Redbeard was suddenly a blur of barking reddish-brown fur. Sherlock held tight to the loop of the leash for fear of losing the hyper canine entirely, but in doing is forced to get dragged along, stumbling gracelessly along the asphalt. They reached the grass on the other side of the road, filled with weeds and densely packed scraggly trees, and Sherlock mutters darkly at his wayward dog, who is now snuffling excitedly at every square inch he can reach in search of the long-departed bird.

A glint of metal distracts him from saying anything too disparaging about Redbeard’s intelligence. He pushes aside some debris and tree limbs to reveal an old minecart, sitting on a small strip of rail that leads north, toward the mountain. This triggers a memory, floating up from his palace of the cave near where Wiggins’ tent resides. From the overgrowth and patina of rust, Sherlock can tell it has been out of service for some time but couldn’t find the immediate reason why. Interesting...

To his right, the road stretched out back the way he had originally come into town, back to London. To his left, he could see a tunnel that he is certain he has walked over before on his way up to Robin’s house. The road itself was entirely empty except for snow, maybe a handful of centimeters, so dry and cold that it easily drifted about in the wind. No cars had come by in hours, maybe even days, so Sherlock simply walked toward the tunnel down the centerline with Redbeard happily sniffing everything within leash-length and occasionally biting snowflakes in vain. What the dog apparently lacked in common sense and self-preservation he made up for in tenacity, Sherlock mused as they approached the dark semi-circle in the side of the hill.

The tunnel was just long enough that Sherlock could only barely see the pinprick of light that must be the other side. There were not many streetlamps to speak of inside, and the dark was near complete. He walked inside cautiously, keeping his right hand lightly grazing the cold stone surface of the wall as an anchor on his bearings. About 25 or so paces in, Sherlock was only a moment from deciding he can’t see enough for this to be interesting or worth his time, when his hand strikes against metal. Some kind of emergency phone box or electrical hub, maybe? He feels with both hands until the latch gives and the small metal door swings open. Though he has very little depth perception in the dim light, he manages to piece together this box has a compartment to house a battery of some kind. It’s currently empty, but he can feel the space and the smooth metallic bumps where the positive and negative connections would rest. It’s larger than he is used to most batteries, so perhaps it is a custom type. About a minute of rifling through his Mind Palace, Sherlock remembers that Maru, the daughter of Robin and Demetrius, was an avid fan of electronics and robotics – maybe she would know what kind of battery this mystery box in the depths of the tunnel needed.

On their way back to the cabin, the snow comes down harder than ever, quickly covering every surface with white flakes. Redbeard is thrilled, but Sherlock is not quite in the present – still filing away all the odd tidbits he’d picked up from today’s trip. Who knew this little hamlet on the shoreline would harbor so many compelling mysteries?

The most recent adventure occurred the day after he met John Watson. It was Sunday morning, and Sherlock had an urge to head out to the beach. Perhaps he could pay a social call to Willy and chat about fishing. Plus, he could go by way of the ranch and wave at Mrs. Hudson, too. Despite morning dawning clear and sunny, he bundled up in many layers. The temperature dropped overnight, freezing the ankle-deep snow that fell the day before into a hard crust. He left Redbeard at home in the warm house this time, not wanting to test out the poor dog’s limits. Though, he did briefly entertain the idea of buying those tiny shoes to protect his feet, but shook his head out of the sentimental thought. (Of course, Sherlock loved him, but there was a difference between love and ridiculous, especially on his razor thin budget.)

Heading south along his new path, watching as his breath steamed with each exhale, Sherlock let his mind drift while taking in the bright light of the morning over the tops of the trees. It didn’t have time to go far, as he was at Mrs. Hudson’s front door before long and being ushered in for hot tea immediately after that. After being thoroughly chatted up and fed, Sherlock left with a thermos full of warm soup, a full tirade of nagging about being out in this weather for too long, and a secret smile on his face. He would vehemently deny it should anyone ever accuse him, but he had a special spot in his heart for his sweet older neighbor worrying over him. He may roll his eyes and brush her off gently when she did it, but Martha Hudson was the only one allowed to mother him and get away with it.

He mused on this and rotated the thermos in his hands as he took the path into town with the river on his right side, on his way to the beach. The dirt path turns to a formal stone walkway, with most of the snow cleared away. His footfalls seemed loud in the early Sunday morning, no one seemed to be awake, or at least ready to leave their homes yet. The first house that appeared on his left was the Watson residence. Just next door to them was the house Sally Donovan and Molly Hooper shared. He was nearly beyond the front door of the latter when he heard shouting. Stopped in his tracks to get complete silence, Sherlock tilted his head to listen. It was not usual to hear raised voices like this in town, except maybe Pam when she was deep in her cups and it seemed too early for that even for her. Was someone in trouble? Forgetting entirely how cold it was or that it is rude to eavesdrop, he stood there until it happened again – definitely behind him – and casually walked to the corner of the Watson’s house to listen. Pressed up against the side of the house, he was just outside the vision of anyone looking out a window and should anyone come out the front door. Perfect.

“- out at the saloon whenever you want when I am at home. Alone! Cleaning, feeding Rosie, doing the shopping. Taking care of  _ your  _ house and  _ your  _ daughter.”

“You’re right, it  _ is _ my house! The one I grew up in, and can come and go from  _ as I please  _ to have lunch with the woman who helped raise me.”

“Are you implying I have no right to be here?” Mary sounded stunned. There’s a brief silence, then a muffled response from John. Sherlock could only hear the strained quality of his voice. Whatever Mary said next is too quiet to hear but it clearly piqued John’s rage again because the yelling started again.

“Why is everything... always...  _ my fault _ ?” A crash rattled the wall Sherlock was pressed against, dropping his jaw open at the ferocity of it. He wasn’t the only one, either – Rosie started to wail from farther back in the house.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Mary  accused; her voice ragged with anger. “You are out of control!”

“Oh no, Mary, I am  _ very much _ in control. I am so in control I am  _ suffocated _ by it. No one, not even you, understands-”

“You  _ never talk to me _ , John. How am I supposed to understand?”

“ _ What am I supposed to say _ ?” John was close to screaming himself hoarse, and so was Rosie in the back room. “That I’m lost? Drowning and I don’t know which way is up?”

“You’re drowning alright.” Mary’s voice chilled Sherlock more than the bitter air that was starting to turn his ears and nose pink. “In a bottle at Gus’s. And I would prefer you did it somewhere else. Not in front of Rosie and not in front of me.”

“Mary, I-”

“Get out, John.”

Sherlock was just about to make a hasty get away so he wasn’t caught when he felt the weight of someone looking at him. His eyes swept around and land on the deep brown, angry glare of Sally Donovan coming from the other side of her sitting room window. Her hands were planted firmly on her hips with a very unamused expression darkening her features. An explosively loud door slam behind Sherlock startled him out of the staring contest and he fled to the back of the house and through a gap in the fence to an open field that leads to the town square. Planting himself at the first bench he came across, Sherlock took long breaths to try to slow his racing heart, forgetting entirely about a walk to the beach. 


End file.
